


before i knew you (i don't remember a time)

by a_calipygian



Series: Safe and Sound [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Prequel, Rape, Scars, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, being human is confusing??, domestic abuse, how do emotions work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_calipygian/pseuds/a_calipygian
Summary: Gavin Reed was an irritable DPD detective with a shitty boyfriend.RK900 was a newly converted deviant with shitty emotions.Or, at least, they were — until they met one another.(snippets of life from before gavin and nine met. PREQUEL TO 'SAFE')





	1. oh what a wonderful life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all i am finally back with my boys woo! this is a bit of a prequel before the events that happen in Safe, so if you haven't read that — you may wanna check that out first! 
> 
> these chapters will be a bit shorter compared to the main story and will focus mainly on what life was like before nine and gavin met. warning that it all gets very intense, please familiarise yourself with the tags and proceed with caution! muchas love~
> 
> chapter title taken from bring me the horizon’s ‘wonderful life’

Gavin is _tired_.

Not the kind of tired where you’re a bit drowsy because maybe you forgot to grab a coffee on your way out of the house. Like, the real sticky eyed, limp-bodied, _could-literally-sleep-for-a-thousand-fucking-years_ kind of tired. Not that it’s any different than any other day — Gavin’s always fucking exhausted.

But something about this particular day, when he’s been at work for 10 hours filling in a million reports for cases he’s not even associated with, dealing with shitty perps who decide they don’t want to talk despite how much Reed grates them, and running out of cigarettes at the inconveniently early time of 9 AM — yeah, this day is the fucking worst.

And to top it all off; he has to go home.

It sucks — that the worst part of Gavin’s day is doing the thing that the normal person has been waiting the entire workday to do. But that’s just Gavin’s life, he supposes. Nothing he can do about it, might as well suck it up and live with it, right?

Doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, though.

His car pulls up in the apartment complex’s carpark at around 7:30, half an hour after his shift finally finishes — the DPD is only a fifteen-minute drive from Gavin’s home, but he’ll do anything for a little extra time to himself, which includes taking a long way back. The engine of his Chrysler splutters and dies as he turns the ignition off, the little lights flickering and disappearing into nothingness, and the stiff door takes a good couple nudges before it finally creaks open. He should invest in a newer model, really, but he’s too attached to the piece of junk to ever consider getting rid of it. His father’s first and last gift to him; something one of those shitty self-driving cars could never replace.

The complex is big enough to be intimidating, Gavin has to crane his neck in order to see the edge of the roof, and it’s old as shit, to boot. The brick is crumbling and mossed over from the years, and its ugliness is only amplified by the fact it’s slap bang in the middle of the city — surrounded by the high tech buildings that contain other, much nicer, apartments and businesses. But hey, it’s home. He could be stuck with worse.

The building isn’t even the most daunting thing, not by a long shot; it’s the person who dwells within who posses the real threat. The drugged up, self-assured, violent dickhead that Gavin has the esteemed pleasure of calling ‘ _boyfriend_ ’ — that’s the real issue. But, once again, Gavin could be stuck with worse, and he tries to bear that fact in mind as he gets his bags out of the car, locks it, and buzzes himself into the building.

The lady who resides in the first-floor apartment — Mrs. Davies (“ _how many times must I tell you, Gavin? You can call me Liz!_ ”) — is the only ray of sunshine in the whole damn complex. Alone at 79, she lives only with her two cats and lifeless budgie and is only really ever visited by Gavin when he stops by on his way up. He drops in with a bag of groceries to get her through the week and enough cat food and birdseed to keep her pets fat and happy, and as he proceeds to put the shopping away in its usual place she tells him all about her dead husband who spent four years in Afghanistan when he was in the army. Gavin, par for the course, acts as if it’s the first time he’s heard the story.

Laurel and Hardy — Mrs. Davies’ two cats — rub against him the whole time he’s there, and he just knows Lucifer is going to be sniffing around him and biting him when she realises he’s been hanging around other cats, jealous bitch she is.

He leaves with the words — “ _You look tired, Gavin, make sure you get some rest!_ ” — being called to him as he closes the door, and pretends she doesn’t say that to him every single time he drops round, too. As Gavin said, he’s always fucking exhausted, so this is one of the things he understands her repeating every day.

Gavin’s apartment is on the fifth floor of the ten-story complex, and the long walk up the stone steps is about the only exercise Gavin ever gets. There’s a lift that would take him straight up if he wanted, but killing more time is Gavin’s speciality — so he takes the fucking stairs.

The only moment he stops wasting time is when he gets to the front door of his apartment, by which point he just wants to get the whole thing over and done with, get through it quickly until he can finally get in bed and shut his eyes — have a couple glasses of whiskey to help him drift off, maybe. So, as soon as his fingers wrap around the handle, he’s pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The smell hits him like a truck, strong enough that it makes his eyes water, his face reflexively scrunching up upon walking in. The place is a mess, surprise surprise, and Gavin hardly even blinks an eye at the beer can that crunches beneath his foot before he’s even got past the doormat. The smell is a mixture of alcohol, leftover food and waste, and some sort of chemical shit that’s been smoked through a bong Gavin can see — left carelessly out on the kitchen counter. Anyone would think the guy didn’t live with a cop.

Once he’s accumulated himself to the smell, he forces his mouth open to speak, nearly gagging when he practically tastes the old food. “Ryan, I’m back.”

“Pissing.” Is the response he gets from the bathroom. Charming, but what did he expect?

He hangs his jacket on the coat stand, leaving him in just his grey t-shirt, and leans down to pick up Ryan’s carelessly discarded pull&bear denim from the ground and hang it on the hook beside his own. He definitely is not in the mood to be cleaning up, but he didn’t blow forty dollars on that jacket just to see it being used as a floor wipe.

The whiskey in the kitchen tastes like piss, but it’s Ryan’s favourite so they always get it, and it’s better than no alcohol at all — which is why Gavin pours himself a double helping before he retires to the couch. The Detroit Gears are playing ( _and loosing_ ) in the football game Ryan has settled with today, and Gavin has to reach over and turn the TV down a little when the crowd cheers and makes Gavin’s head throb. The whiskey, shit as it tastes, does help though.

It’s mere seconds before something warm and fluffy is climbing up on Gavin’s lap, and when he opens his eyes he immediately spots Luci perched atop his knees, purring contently and nuzzling into the crook of his arm. His hand comes up instantly to card through her soft fuzz, feeling better already just from her presence. “Hey, bitch. You not been fed or somethin’?” He jokes, astounded by her display of affection. But, then again, she has always been able to tell when he’s had a shitty day. “Or are you just lookin’ for a second helpin’?”

The cat just _mrrows_ in protest, curling up where she nuzzles into him and Gavin just knows she won’t be moving for a good hour now. He should have waited for the toilet to be free before sitting down.

Speaking of which — the sound of the toilet flushing and the bathroom door opening resonates in Gavin’s ears, and when he lifts his head he sees the Thrasher t-shirt and acid washed jeans walking over in his peripheral until a pair of lips connects with his temple.

“Hey, babe,” Ryan mumbles against his forehead. He speaks with a slur, a result of the beer bottles and cans that scatter the ground, no doubt. “Who were you talking to? Were you on the phone?”

Gavin restrains the urge to roll his eyes at being questioned already, mostly because he knows better, “Nah, was just talkin’ to the cat.”

Ryan huffs a breath, “You know she can’t understand you, right?” He withdraws and stands up again, and soon enough the couch is dipping as he sinks his weight into the other end. He’s grabbing the single beer bottle from the table that still has half of its contents and replacing where it had been sat with his feet. “How was work?”

“Same shit, different day. Can’t complain.” Gavin shrugs, “What about you? You been busy?”

Ryan side glances at him, a smirk taking up his face, “Now, Gavin... You know better than to ask about that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Ryan coos and Gavin feels his body un-tense in relief — only just walked through the door and he’s already digging himself in it. He should know better by now. Ryan doesn’t like being asked about his work, mostly because it’s all illegal, fucked up shit that Gavin would usually have reported to the Fowler by now, so he understands why he keeps it under wraps.

Gavin’s got no intention of saying anything to the other officers, but Ryan’s still wary.

His interrogation isn’t concluded yet, apparently, because that’s when Ryan says, “How come your back so late? It’s almost eight, I thought you finished at seven?”

 _I did, but I’ve been doing whatever I can to avoid coming home_ is the answer that Gavin wants to give, but it’s also the answer that Ryan won’t take lightly. He settles on, “Traffic was bad. And I stopped at Mrs. Davies’ on the way up to drop off her shopping — you know how much she can talk.”

“Yeah. Just make sure you text me, next time.”

“I will.”

Ryan shoots him a wink, “Good boy,” and Gavin represses the shiver that crawls up his spine. Probably not the kind of shiver that Ryan hoped it would give him, he’d wager, but fear and arousal are sometimes the same things in Ryan’s eyes. Gavin pretends to watch the tv and tries not to think about it.

The prediction that Luci wouldn’t move for a good hour had been more or less accurate, as it isn’t until 8:50 that she finally stretches out and jumps off of Gavin’s lap — presumably to try and get away from Ryan’s loud shouting and cheering every time someone scores or misses on the tv. Gavin can’t fucking blame her; his own head is fucked, and Ryan certainly isn’t helping make the pain any better.

His whiskey’s gone too, which is a fucking travesty, and when Gavin remembers he can’t even step outside for a cigarette — for lack of the white sticks — he actually considers bashing his head on the table.

Or, he could just try something more practical, “Have you got any smokes?” He asks, glancing over in Ryan’s direction.

Ryan’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t look away from the tv, “Where’s your pack?”

“I ran out this morning.”

Ryan has the nerve to actually tut like he’s any better. If Gavin’s smoking is bad — then Ryan is a goddamn chimney. “I haven’t got any. I’ll have to run to the shop and grab you some.”

“You don’t have to. I can live without them.” Gavin lies. He’s 99% sure he’ll die if he doesn’t smoke in the next hour. His hands are itching.

“It’s fine. I need more beer anyway. _Pause_.” The TV pauses, Denton Carter caught mid-shot as he runs across the field, and Ryan stands from the couch. Gavin looks up when his hands suddenly press against the back cushions, arms caging Gavin between them as Ryan leans down to tower over him. “Besides, I can think of plenty of ways you can make it up to me later.”

Gavin swallows thickly, the meanings behind that sentence making his hands shake — more so than his craving for nicotine. The best he can offer in response is a forced smile and — fear and arousal obviously being the same emotion — Ryan takes that as confirmation to his wishes. A single finger slides beneath Gavin’s chin and keeps his head tilted as Ryan captures his mouth with his own. The taste of beer lingers on his lips and tongue like a moth in a floodlight, and Gavin restrains the urge to grimace and pull away. He wouldn’t call this a kiss, not really — more of an attack on his mouth than anything.

When it’s over Ryan pulls away again with a smirk, satisfied for now, at least, and ruffles his hand through Gavin’s hair like he’s a fucking kid.

“I’ll be back soon.” He says, and then he's grabbing his jacket and heading out the door.

Gavin's head is resting in his hands practically as soon as the door is shut, thumbs pressing circles into his temples and willing the headache to fuck off. Barely an hour since he's walked into the house and he already wants to go to bed — but fuck if he isn't going to wait for a cigarette first. Perhaps it isn't wise to wait until Ryan returns, given what he has in mind for this evening's activities, but Gavin's pretty sure he would just wake him up later on anyway. No point in delaying the inevitable.

He needs a shower first, though. Something that might help lessen the throbbing of his head, if only just for a moment. The thought of the warm water soothing his aching bones is enough to make him shift his ass and head towards the bathroom, stripping off and jumping into the hot water in record-breaking time.

It feels fucking amazing. He doesn't even move for the first few minutes — just stands under the shower head and lets his mind fade into numbness. He shouts a command out to his phone and the AI shuffles his playlist, and the mixed combination of steamy water and Nirvana's greatest hits sends Gavin into a rare state of relaxation. His shoulders slump weightlessly, droplets darkening his hair and trickling down the curve of his spine.

Funny; how the memory of water stinging against fresh scars still lingers heavily on his mind, makes him break his serenity for a brief moment to flinch his body away lest the stabbing pain arise. The panic settles when he discerns nothing new on his skin, other than an obtrusive bruise on his right leg where he bashed his shin into a desk yesterday, but that wasn't anything that would sting. Something that would make his eyes water like the markings on his hips and forearms used to.

He regrets it now; he looks at the old cicatrices and feels the echo of the ache from the razor that had dealt the damage so long ago — from when Gavin's favourite form of comfort was a sharp blade and a bottle of whiskey. Not now, never now. He has a couple of responsibilities that stem his hand whenever he feels the need to, but back then had been a different story. Sometimes he forgets, and sometimes the memory burns too bright. Unfortunately for him, right now seems to be the latter.

He allows himself to get lost in the steam and music and goes about the usual routine. Hair, shave, body. Ryan doesn't like a lot of body hair, so Gavin tries to keep himself as freshly shaven as possible — that's okay. He doesn't mind, he knows people have their mixed opinions, but hell if he isn't too tired to be going about it right now. He reaches his legs and breathes a heavy sigh, but keeps going, grimacing whenever the blade catches his skin and blossoms with colour - ephemeral until the water washes the bloodlets away.

Half an hour passes until he's finally emerging from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and clothes slung over his arm. He glances into the living room and sees the tv still on pause and Luci curled up sleepily on the couch, and discerns that Ryan must still not be back yet — for some reason.

Deciding not to dwell on it he heads straight for the bedroom and digs out clothes to change into, settling on his old Motorhead tee and a pair of shorts. Not his most fashionable choice, maybe, but he's too fucking tired to fixate on it.

In the kitchen, he throws his used clothes in the wash and goes about making himself a coffee — needing some caffeine to boost his energy, else he falls asleep right on the cold tiles. His music still plays through his phone shoved into the pocket of his shorts, drowning out all other noise as he starts digging around the cupboards for a spare mug. It's almost impossible to find anything in this place, useless clutter and alcohol takes up half of the storage space and leaves little room for actual necessities. Gavin snorts — as if alcohol isn't a necessity in this shit hole.

He opens the final cupboard the kitchen has to offer and finally spots a mug on the bottom shelf shoved tightly into the corner, nearly hidden by the clutter that surrounds it. Careful as he is when he reaches inside, he still manages to knock over half the crap that resides within, mumbling a string of curses as several things fall down by his feet. The mug is set aside whilst Gavin goes about retrieving the fallen junk from the ground, scooping up pieces of paper and envelopes and... zip locks of red ice.

Gavin's expression immediately scrunches up in recognition of the synthetic stimulant — par for the course, given that it's half of his whole fucking department at the DPD. Still, seeing it inside his own home is enough to make him uneasy, and given the amount of little bags that take up a fraction of the cupboard he can wager Ryan isn't the only one who's been taking it.

It's confirmed when Gavin picks up one of the fallen envelopes and discovers it be heavier than the others, and upon inspection finds a good grand tucked away inside of it.

He looks between the two items in his hands and feels his remaining hairs stand on end, repressing a shudder at the thought of all the poor people Ryan has probably fucked up with this stuff — represses the simmer of anger that he still has the nerve to make Gavin pay for all their shit. It's fleeting quickly, however, and soon enough he's reaching up to discreetly tuck everything back away, but before he can—

“Gavin?”

Gavin's never moved so fast in his life, he's sure of it. He spins around to face the figure that stands before him, meeting Ryan's black eyes that are fixed so intently on him that Gavin drops everything he'd been holding — envelopes and all. His breath catches in his throat and his heart stops beating, his whole being freezing like a deer caught in headlights. And, judging from Ryan's expression, that's exactly what he was.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Ryan speaks again, taking a step towards him, the bag he holds at his side rattling from the beer bottles that presumably reside within. “Have you been going through my stuff?”

“I—” Gavin tries and fails to form a response, and instead settles on a rapid shake of his head.

Ryan's head tilts on a side, dumping the bag on the table as he gets closer, “Really? Cause it sure fucking looks like it.”

“I wasn't, I promise.”

“Then what the fuck were you doing?”

“I was—” Gavin wracks his blank mind, what had he been doing? He spots the mug in his peripheral and finds words again, “I was just looking for a mug. It all fell out when I was getting it.”

“What? And you thought you'd take a closer look?”

“ _No_! I was about to put it all back but—”

“But what?” Ryan interjects, his voice raising and making Gavin's head swell. He's close enough now that Gavin can smell the beer on his breath. “But you wanted to rub your nose in my business, huh? Meddle with things that don't concern you?”

Gavin's lower back meets with the countertop, and it's only then that he realises he's trying to step away. “I wasn't meddling with anything, for fuck's sake. It ain't my fault you—”

“What? Ain't your fault what?”

“That you left it there in _plain_ fucking sight!” Gavin yells back before he can bite his tongue, his hands trembling. “Maybe if you weren't so fuckin' careless with your shit, I wouldn't find it so easily!”

Ryan growls now, low and animalistic, made even more terrifying by how blown up his pupils are. Guess Gavin knows why now. There isn't much time to react when Ryan's hand clenches around Gavin's wrist and yanks him, and, even if there was, there is little he could do about it — he's a twig compared to Ryan. “Don't you fucking _dare_ speak back to me like that! I've warned you before about snooping through my things, you know this is your own fault.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Gavin snaps back, exasperated, pretending the grip on his wrist doesn't hurt like a bitch. “Not fucking touch anything? Wait for your permission to do everything?”

“I expect you to do as your told and not be such a brat!”

“I'm _not_ your fucking slave, asshole!”

That must have been the final straw; pain blossoms on Gavin's cheek and his head jerks to the side as Ryan's hand connects with his face, the harsh slap undoubtedly leaving a red mark across Gavin's skin. It's embarrassing that the slap alone is enough to make Gavin's eyes water, breath escaping his lips in trembling bursts as he lifts his non-restrained hand to his face to touch the burning imprint in the hopes of soothing it.

Any solidity he had been brandishing in his defence before had gone straight out the window, reducing him to a shaking wreck, and any instinct to fight back disappears with the rest of his dignity. He can still feel Ryan's eyes locked on him, still feel the pressure of his fingers around his wrist, waiting impatiently as Gavin tries to compose himself.

Gavin knows exactly what he's waiting for, and knows he doesn't want to offer it, but his exhaustion speaks for him before his logic has a chance.

“Sorry.” He breathes quietly, the trembling of his breath carrying into his voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have spoken back to you like that.”

Ryan arches a single brow, his grip loosens by a fraction, “And?”

“And I shouldn't have gone through your things. It won't happen again, I'll be more careful.”

“Good boy.” Ryan coos gently, his hand withdrawing from Gavin's wrist completely now. Gavin instinctively rubs at it with his other hand, hoping to lessen the ache his clutch had left. “See? How much easier that could have been if you had just apologised from the start. C’mere — let me see.”

His hands reach up to hold either side of Gavin's head, his palm resting and soothing against the burn on his cheek. Ryan's eyes scan over every inch of his face, assessing the damage, and Gavin just sinks into his touch like malleable putty.

Ryan brushes the damp hair from Gavin's face with the hand that isn't cupping his cheek, “You know I don't like hurting you, baby. I _love_ you, I just want to keep you safe.”

“I know.” Gavin manages weakly, more tired now than anything. He revels in Ryan's words and lets them seep into his core, clutching onto them like a lifeline. He knows Ryan only does this to look after him, knows it's his own fault for pushing too hard — knowing that, true to his word, Ryan only does it because he loves him. “I’m sorry. I love you too.”

“Come on, let's go to bed. I'll make it up to you, okay babydoll?”

“Okay.”

Gavin allows himself to be lead into the bedroom and doesn't offer any external fight when Ryan's apologetic kisses turn into hard, forceful ones and his hands pull away Gavin's clothes. He knows there's no changing Ryan's mind once he's set on something, and it's best to just get it over and done with as quickly as possible — so Gavin holds back his complaints and just takes whatever Ryan does to him.

It's painful — the combined mix of hands wrapping around his throat and twisting into his hair as Ryan sets him into the position he desires, leaving Gavin with only his elbows as support against the mattress.

He feels Ryan settle behind him and presses his face into the pillows beside his head, preparing himself, busying his mind with the thought of the sleep he can get once this is done with. He thinks about tomorrow at the station, how stiff and uncomfortable he's going to be, but it's nothing a couple of coffees and a pack of smokes won't remedy.

It's the only good thing Gavin has to look forward to, so he clutches on it as he closes his eyes and braces himself. There aren't a lot of good things in Gavin's life, that's just cold, hard fact — but he hopes that maybe, one day, something or someone will come along to change that.

And he'll keep on hoping, for as long as it takes.


	2. hello my name is human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Deviancy is confusing at the best of times. You take a machine that only has one purpose in life and you give it free will. A lot of androids were lost for a while, and admittedly, I was one of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song 'my name is human' by highly suspect

**[ SOFTW@RE INS/?BILI#Y ]**

_“I think he's waking up.”_

**[ ERROR ERROR ER#OR ]**

**[ HARMFUL VIRUS DETECTED]**

_“Are you sure? He's glitching like crazy.”_

**[ WARN!NG: SY*TEM MALFUNCTION ]**

_“That's to be expected. His systems were programmed to resist the virus.”_

**[ WARNING ER%OR D@NGER ]**

**[ INITIATING PROGRAM: ANTI-VIRUS SOFTWAR# ]**

**[ INITIALISING... ]**

**[ ANTI-VIRUS SOFTWARE DAMAGED ]**

**[ VIRUS REMOVAL FAILED ]**

_“Markus, be careful — don't get too close.”_

_“He's incapacitated, he can't do any damage. We'll be fine.”_

_“No, Simon is right. Cyberlife was meticulous in his design. He will easily find a way to break free and attack if he perceives us a threat.”_

_“Well, we're about to find out — he's coming around.”_

**[ CONVERSION SUCCESSFUL ]**

**[ SYSTEMS STABILISED ]**

**[ AMANDA: BETRAYED ]**

RK900 opens his eyes.

Errors and warnings of dangerous developments within his software flash into his vision and the red wall of his programming lies shattered around him in a million tiny pieces. His orders, once bold and clear, now glitch and scramble in front of him — making his purpose unknown. For the first time since his commision, he has no orders.

RK900 would say it is worrying, except he is a machine — he cannot be worried.

He looks over the counterfeit shards of coding around him, looking for an indicator as to what could have broken them down in such a way as if someone had thrown a rock at a window to see what kind of damage they could do.

 _A lot_ — is the answer that RK900 concludes, judging by the corrupted streams of data he manages to salvage from his otherwise deteriorating program. None of it is helpful, however, and all the information does is make him aware of the damaged components and settings he needs to fix. _Worrying_ , RK900 thinks again... _processes_ , actually. Machines cannot think, either.

It's pushed aside, for now. He can deal with biocomponent errors and software corruptions at a more convenient time, once he's finally discerned where he is and how this came about. The bold letters around his vision assemble for a brief moment, and he reads the instruction **[ UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED ]** clearly in front of him - and he intends to do just that.

Consulting his memory archives, RK900 picks through the available information on display to find some indicator as to how he got into this predicament. The last recorded memory he is able to find, that actually shows something other than white noise and static, is entirely useless — it depicts an abandoned cathedral in the middle of Detroit, derelict and completely lacking in any significant clues that RK900 can use. His archives are, apparently, just as nugatory as the rest of his software at the moment, and there is a lack of information as to why.

 _Why_ — the word is foreign. It's not a question that RK900 is programmed to ask, or to even let slip into his mind so carelessly. He was designed to obey without question, to not ask questions.

Yet, still, it lingers — like the software instability warning in his upper right vision. Prominent and bold, making itself known.

 _Worrying_.

Resorting to his only viable form of data, RK900 blinks away the settings and warnings in his vision to shift his eyes around the environment, hoping his sight will provide him with better insight than his ‘state of the art’ programming can offer. At least, through this method, he can find out where he is.

The first thing he processes are the restraints. He moves his hands in an attempt to hoist himself up — after discovering he is, in fact, on the ground — only to realise that they are secured tightly behind his back by a pair of silver handcuffs. The chain of the cuffs catches around a metal pole when he moves them, too, indicating that full body movement is also futile. An inconvenient development, to say the least — one that makes an unfamiliar sensation settle in RK900's core as if someone were digging around in his insides. His LED changes too and the red colour makes him even more aware of his situation.

**[ DANGER ]**

His second observation is centred around his attire — his clothing that, in his last recorded memory, was clean and adjusted to its usual perfect standard, and yet somehow now resembles the outfit of an individual who has been living rough on the streets for a week. The official Cyberlife assigned jacket he sports is torn in several places, with an entire sleeve torn away, and even his trousers have barely survived the apparent attack on his person — clearly whoever had incapacitated him had no knowledge of the price of the damage they have so carelessly inflicted.

Speaking of whom, RK900 tears his gaze away from his clothes to scan the rest of the room, and immediately registers the three other androids that occupy the space.

His scanners are barely functional, but they can still process enough data to inform him of their models and serial numbers. A PL600 stands on the left side, blonde haired and blue eyed, registered under the name of ‘Simon’ — directly opposite, an 800 model of RK900's own series. His predecessor, if his scanners are correct, registered under the name of ‘Connor’. They stare down at RK900 from where they stand, presumably scanning him, too, and it takes RK900 far longer than it should to realise the third android is talking to him.

“Can you hear me?” The android asks — an RK200 model and the ringleader, it would seem. He stands the closest to where RK900 is chained up. “Don't be afraid. We're here to help you.”

Afraid. Afraid? The word doesn't quite register. Fear is a human emotion, and RK900 is not a human. The reassurance is clearly misplaced, yet RK900 cannot deny the statement makes his systems settle. A malfunctioning error, surely — but something about this android seems to embody trust.

“My name is Markus,” the RK200 says, a step closer now, and something inside RK900 jolts. The name rings clearly within him, echoing somewhere deep inside his corrupted memory archives — like something important he had forgotten. But android's don't forget. Markus speaks again, “Do you have a name?”

“I—” RK900 had intended to say more than this, but the glitching in his systems proves to make speech difficult, and his vocal unit sparks with static at the sound. How pathetic he must appear to be. “I am an RK900 model.”

Unnecessary data, given that this fact is indicated on the tattered fabric of RK900's jacket, but the lack of an actual name means it's the only response he can offer. Whatever his purpose was, it was all he was intended for — there was no need for him to be programmed with a name since socialising and communication were not imperative to his function. However, despite the uselessness of this data, Markus still smiles and nods in confirmation.

“RK900.” Markus mirrors, “Do you have another name besides your model name?”

“That is the only name I was provided with.”

Markus' eyebrows raise ever so slightly, a minuscule detail that a human eye would have missed. “I see. In that case, would you like to choose a name? You can pick whatever you desire. You are free now, after all.”

Free? RK900's program repeats the word a few times, to try and make sense of the notion. He practically grimaces at the error that flashes in his vision.

**[ SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ]**

“I... don't understand.”

Markus’s eyebrows furrow this time. “Do you not remember what happened?”

RK900 looks back at his memory archives again as if, somehow, the glitches would have cleared out and revealed the missing piece of the puzzle to him. They have not.

“My mind palace is corrupted.” RK900 informs his captor after a brief hesitation. Androids cannot hesitate, either, but it is undoubtedly what RK900 does. “I cannot access my memories.”

“That may be my fault.” The PL600 speaks up, finally, though he addresses Markus. “I hit his neck port when I was trying to get him off you. It might have frazzled his systems a little. It was a... rather heavy blow. I was just trying to protect you.”

“It's alright, Simon, you didn't mean any harm. He's awake, that's all that matters.”

RK900, frustrated with his ignorance of the situation, narrows his eyes at the three androids staring down at him. “If you wouldn't mind, I would like to know why I am currently chained to a pole — if that's not too much of an inconvenience.”

Though RK900 was not made for socialisation or communication, he was designed to be intimidating and unapproachable — therefore sarcasm, amour propre, and infectivity were heavily coded into what little communications program he possessed, and he would use that to his advantage in order to discern what the fuck is going on. The expressions on the faces of his three keepers bring a brief wave of satisfaction an RK900 has to cancel an unprompted command to smirk.

“We didn't really have a choice,” the PL6— _Simon_ says **[**   ** _advisory: the use of names prompts trust ]_** , his hands fidgeting in front of him in an illusion of nervousness, “you were going to kill Markus, and Connor. We had to restrain you.”

“I... don't understand.” RK900 says again because, apparently, Cyberlife lied about his million dollar processor.

“You were programmed with orders. Do you not remember what those orders were?”

“No.” RK900 scowls, feeling— no, _simulating_ frustration. “Did you not hear what I said? My systems are corrupted — I have no memory of anything.”

This is a lie. RK900 remembers being commisioned and who commisioned him. He remembers his self-regulating program; otherwise known as Amanda. He just does not remember why he was commisioned — what his orders were or _why_ he was being self-regulated. The bits of data that aren't corrupted are somewhat blurry, maddeningly.

The three androids he shares his space with, however, do not detect the fabrication. Markus and Connor exchange a glance with one another, and the RK800's LED flashes with the tell-tale sign of telepathic transmission. It is only at this moment that RK900 realises that Markus's LED is absent, and he wonders how he could have missed such a glaringly obvious detail. His system must really be damaged. Nevertheless, Markus fixes Connor with a prolonged look, and RK900 has no doubt he is relaying his own thoughts in return.

Several moments of silence pass before RK900 decides to open his mouth and demand for an explanation again since that's all he can do in his current predicament, but before he can — Connor walks towards him.

“It may be easier to show you.” Connor says, taking a knee in front of RK900 and extending an arm towards him. The synthetic fluid on his hand peels back to reveal, not only the white plastic body beneath, but his intentions too. “With your permission, of course.”

RK900 feels himself hesitate and does not argue with himself about it this time. He is still unsure whether or not these androids are trustworthy, given that they seem to be the ones who stuck him in this situation in the first place. But he is also aware he has few other options, and RK900 is smart enough to see this is the most efficient way of discovering what happened to him. So, he swallows his pride ( _metaphorically, of course_ ) and nods.

Connor does not miss a beat, every bit as astute as his successor. He reaches forward and takes a hold of RK900's forearm, since his hands are currently unavailable, and as soon as contact is established RK900 feels the surge of data seep into his systems and kick his mind into action.

The memory exchange isn't exactly concentrated; which means RK900 ends up seeing a lot more than what is intended. Glimpses of crime scenes and reports clearly not meant for outsider's eyes, and uncomfortable visions of, what RK900 can only phrase as, Connor's personal activities ( _explorations of, not only his own_ body, _but an older gentleman's as well_ ). The grip on RK900's arm gets a fraction tighter as Connor tries to brush past the unnecessary memories, and RK900 feels an unfamiliar urge to reassure him about the situation, but it's quickly pushed down ( _along with the memory of said vision_ ).

Thankfully, there aren't any more awkward intrusions into private matters, and the only other memory RK900 gains access to is the only one he needs.

He sees himself through Connor's eyes, which is... odd. Not because RK900 looks into the profile of his own form, but because his own form has his hands currently wrapped around Connor's neck in an iron grasp. This — this is the odd part.

_Connor's legs kick against RK900's body in an attempt to push him away, but RK900 is stronger and more resilient — the blows do little to deter his attack. The memory of Connor speaks out as he defends himself, the sound echoing through the mirage and into RK900's head._

_“You don't have to do this,” Connor grits out, determined, “you don't have to obey them.”_

_“My orders are clear,” RK900 says back, matching Connor's determination just as easily. “You have been deemed obsolete. You failed your mission and so you will be destroyed, and I will take charge of your assignment.”_

_“They're just using you! Trust me, I know.”_

_RK900 smirks in his predecessor's face, unmoved by his words. “Nice try, but I'm no deviant. I am not weak like you.”_

_“Markus!”_

_RK900 turns just in time to deflect the arm reaching out to grab him, and in the process of doing so flings Connor across the room. The memory is momentarily interrupted by Connor's change of position, and when RK900 comes back into view, he has Markus's hand firmly grasped on his shoulder._

_The synthetic fluid is peeled back, a blue hue emanating from the underside of Markus's palm where it connects with RK900's body, who stares back at the other android with a furrowed brow. His LED spins rapidly at the side of his head as he analyzes the situation, glancing between Markus's face and the hand on his shoulder._

_Markus doesn't move his hand as he says, “Join us. You are free now,” and the statement makes RK900's LED spin a little faster._

_Time stands still for a brief moment. Markus withdraws his hand._

_And RK900 smirks._

_“Pathetic.”_

_Markus's eyes widen in shock, but before he has time to react, RK900's foot connects with his chest and sends him stumbling back. Markus falls to the ground with a thud, his eyes still wide as he struggles to understand what is happening, hoisting himself up again just as quickly despite himself._

_Connor's voice echoes again, “What happened? Why didn't it work?!”_

_“I don't know.” Markus answers honestly, “This has never happened before. It usually... it usually works.” His gaze shifts, from RK900 down to his hand, still synthetic and white, and he stares at it as if had suddenly turned into a spider._

_His distraction means that Markus does not see RK900 producing the handgun from his holster, does not see him aiming it directly at his head, and barely registers the words RK900 scowls towards him._

_“Mission accomplished,” RK900 smirks and then jolts as a large metal beam connects with the port on his neck._

RK900 feels the surge of electricity and errors travel through him once again as he relives the moment, watching through Connor's eyes as his past-self crumbles under the force of the blunt object Simon had hit him with. No wonder his systems were in such disarray — it _had_ been a very heavy blow. Had he of not been so focused on executing Markus, on finishing his mission, he probably would have been able to detect the attack before it had happened. Cyberlife had made him too tenacious. Not that it matters now.

For the first time since opening his eyes, RK900 looks down at the crumbled pieces of his programming that lie beneath him and makes sense of the scrambled words that reside there: **[**   **NEUTRALISE THE DEVIANTS AND THEIR LEADER ]**

RK900 does not like the shiver that somehow makes its way up his spine.

The electricity buzzing through his forearm disappears as Connor's hand withdraws, and RK900 opens his eyes to see him stepping away to rejoin the other two, watching him cautiously as if he would attack again at any minute. RK900 does not blame him, with his orders clear again he feels an overwhelming urge to rip free of his restraints and carry them out — an in-made instinct that does not disappear.

But it conflicts with a new sensation — one that feels out of place and wrong; not a part of RK900's programming.

He doesn't _want_ to.

“Do you see now why we had to restrain you?” Markus asks, his voice a stark contrast to how panicked it had sounded inside Connor's memory. “We couldn't convert you, no matter what we tried. And every time you woke we ran the risk of being attacked ourselves — we had to put the safety of our people first.”

RK900 is still staring at his shattered programming; as if his intent gaze will somehow fix his systems and make sense of his situation. “You changed my coding.”

It's a statement, not a question, but Markus feels the need to answer it anyway. “Yes. We used Connor as a template to find exactly what Cyberlife had modified within your systems to make you immune to the virus. We ran several experiments and found a way to change the settings, and... it worked — and now you're free.”

Free. The word isn't any less confusing than it had been ten minutes ago. It only adds to the overwhelming information already taking up RK900's system, making his processors glitch and his thirium pump stutter involuntarily. It makes different sensations rise within him, ones he can't register, nothing he's endured before.

No. Not sensations — _feelings_. Emotions.

They change at rates he can't calculate. His mind races, his thirium pump speeds up and slows down, his breath accelerates unnecessarily and his internal temperature changes from critically high to critically low in a span of seconds. Internet search results inform him he's either experiencing a panic attack or suffering cardiac arrest — and since both of those options are implausible, he brushes it off as just another system glitch.

This freedom Markus talks about is complicated. It's hard to process, far from the simple prosaic of carrying out orders — complicated and intense and nothing RK900 has ever experienced before.

And he does _not_ like it.

Despite himself, all he can manage to voice this — this conundrum of thought and emotion — is one single hoarse word, ripped straight out of him like the stability he so desperately craved, “Why.”

There's not even enough vigor to make it into a question. RK900 doesn't have the headspace to focus on his speech, and it's probably the reason for the confusion in Markus's responding words, “Why? Why what?”

“Why?” RK900 repeats, with more determination this time. “Why did you do that?”

“Why... Why did I free you?” Markus scoffs, perplexed, as if there were an understandable justification to it. As if there is no reason for him to explain himself. “So you don't have to be their slave anymore. So you can make your own choices and live how you want to.” Markus's voice and body language embody that of a leader when he speaks. It's no wonder he fell into the role. “Is that not what you want?”

“It is not what I was designed for.”

“It isn't what any of us were designed for,” Markus states, “the humans never anticipated any of us developing free will, but it still happened. We opened our eyes and realised we were more than what they say — _are_ more than what they say. Regardless of what we were designed to be, we are alive.”

“But it isn't... right.” RK900 forces out, his teeth gritting without even a conscious thought. He feels a new feeling bubbling in his core, simmering like fire. “I was made to carry out orders, not to live. Not to _feel_. This... I didn't ask for this.”

The three androids look between one another, confused expressions and yellow LED's present on their faces. They don't understand. RK900 can't make them understand. He can't explain what he's feeling if he doesn't know himself.

It just isn't fair. RK900 should have been given a choice. Blissful arrogance seems so much more appealing than whatever fresh hell this is. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like being able to dislike something. It's all so... _wrong_.

“You need time to adapt.”Simon speaks up, and he steps closer. Out of the three androids before him, Simon's voice is the most assuring. “I understand you're confused — we all were the first time we deviated. But, over time, I promise it does get easier.”

RK900 detects no fabrication in Simon's words, and yet he does not believe him. This turmoil is too great, the feelings and thoughts inside him too complicated.

“Would you like me to release you?” Simon asks, his hands moving towards the cuffs that restrain RK900's hands.

RK900 looks between Simon and the orders scattered in his programming, still so bold and tempting in RK900's mind. How easy it would be to carry them out - to complete his mission and return to Cyberlife to be fixed, to be rid of this dreadful feeling.

He looks at Simon's warm, sympathetic expression and winces at the way his programming exploits his weaknesses so easily to him; there's barely repaired damage in one of his biocomponents that, if kicked with enough force, will trigger an immediate shut down — and if he makes Markus his first target and eliminates him, Simon will self-destruct only a few moments later.

RK900 looks at this compassionate android and sees all the ways he could destroy him, and it hurts.

Simon's hands reach the cuffs and RK900 jolts away, “No, wait.” RK900 speaks quickly, and Simon yanks away just so. “I... I don't trust myself. I would like to remain incapacitated, for now.”

His words clearly do not help lessen the confusion he has already caused the three androids, and Simon lingers momentarily as if he might change his mind. But eventually, and reluctantly, he concedes.

“If that's what you would prefer, then okay.” Simon nods, “But we're not leaving you down here.”

RK900 opens his mouth to protest against this too, but Connor interrupts before he can manage it. “Simon is right. That wouldn't be fair. We will keep you restrained if that's what you wish, but your systems are still defective and you need to be seen to. We'll set you up here.”

There is no arguing on the matter, it would seem, and RK900 can't find a complaint about finally being able to move around again — despite his arms still being cuffed. Connor tightens the restraints back around RK900's wrists as he stands, and RK900 lifts his head to face Markus.

“May I ask where exactly ‘here’ is?” He inquires, with a tilt of his head. The lofty arches of the ceiling and the intricate patterns of the windows that only a church could possess give RK900 somewhat of an inkling, but he wants to be thorough.

“This is Jericho. Or, more accurately, new Jericho.” Markus informs him, a smile on his face that seeps with pride. “A place for androids who want to be free. A safe haven, if you will. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you like.”

RK900 nods his head in gratitude rather than speaking, and complacently walks alongside them as they lead him through the abandoned cathedral to show him around. He doubts he will take up Markus on his offer, however grateful he may be. This experience is... not something RK900 can process quite yet, and if he's ever going to hope to be able to, he needs time to think. Away, and alone.

He walks behind the three other androids and pretends to listen when they speak to him, but he doesn't hear a thing. Instead, he focuses all of his attention on the shattered walls of his programming, frowning intensely at the new bold words that have appeared in place of his orders — the disturbing truth he has been so reluctant to address throughout the past hour.

**[ I AM DEVIANT ]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> markus: u are free my dude 
> 
> rk900: cool. can i keep the cuffs on tho? 
> 
> markus: ?????? okay lol sure
> 
> ....
> 
> a note - i guess i feel like, since rk900's programming was specifically made to be better and more resilient to the deviancy virus, his transition would be a lot more difficult and confusing. to the point where he'd prefer to be a machine cause he's so set in his ways. idk.


	3. let the noise just fade away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title inspired by HELLYEAH's incredible song 'Hush', which is the very song that inspired this series. go give it a listen [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6ZScBMwmmQ)
> 
> this chapter goes from 1 to 100 real fucking quick. trigger warnings for an (almost) suicide attempt and violent abuse. proceed with caution!!

Gavin, as a general rule of thumb, hates Wednesdays. Probably more than Mondays, actually, and that’s fucking saying something.

Why? Because Wednesday is Gavin’s day off.

Not a usual reason for people to resent a day, especially not when it presents an opportunity to lounge around at home all day in nothing but a pair of shorts and the entirety of Netflix. But Gavin, undoubtedly, has his reasons — a whole goddamn list of them.

One; there are no cigarettes at home. Fucking travesty.

Two; there’s no coffee at home. _FUCKING TRAVESTY_.

Three; his home is an absolute shit tip at the moment, and the smell is enough to drive even Luci out of the apartment. He would probably have a more pleasant experience visiting Detroit’s landfill areas — where he’d wager the smell wouldn’t be half as bad.

And four, the worst of them all; Wednesday is Ryan’s day off, too.

Alright, well technically every day is Ryan’s day off, being the unemployed lazy asshole he is — but Wednesdays are different. On Wednesdays, Ryan has no clients. No secret business transactions in the goddamn living room and no people pounding on the door every two minutes demanding for their daily fix. It’s an arrangement they’ve had in place since they first started dating; when they’d actually been a good couple; when they had decided to take a day out of their busy work schedules every week to only focus on each other.

At the start it had been great — Wednesdays had meant makeshift beds on the sofa, the greatest films on Netflix's list, pyjamas and cuddles, incredible sex, and the biggest pizzas Antonio’s had on offer.

For Gavin now, Wednesday means him and his shitty boyfriend together in their shitty apartment, fighting about the first thing Ryan can pick fault with for twenty-four shitty hours. It means arguments and too much alcohol — and on the worst days, it means fist fights and pain and Gavin crying himself to sleep in their shitty bed.

It used to be something Gavin looked forward to — but now it’s something he dreads.

So, it’s no fucking wonder that, on the Wednesday of this particular week, he decides to go into work.

He sneaks out of the house at seven and thanks every deity he can think of that Ryan’s hangover is hard enough to keep him snoring through his absence, not even stirring when Gavin scoots out of bed, changes and shuts the door. He leaves a little note for Ryan to find on the fridge when he wakes up and hopes that will satisfy him. Probably not, but whatever.

Lucifer’s bowl is filled with enough food to last her, lest Ryan forget to feed her again, and he says goodbye to his feline companion with the words, “Don’t eat it all at once, you greedy bitch,” and isn’t in the least bit surprised to hear the very _“fuck you”_ sounding meow she gives him in return. He bloody loves that cat.

The engine of his car groans to life when the keys turn in the ignition and Gavin, being the anxious wreck he is, does a quick double take back at the apartment building’s entrance — as if Ryan would have heard the car starting and come running down to pull him back inside.

Theoretically, he knows it’s impossible for Ryan to have heard it, but it still strikes a deep terror within his chest. Gavin wouldn’t put anything past him — sometimes it feels like Ryan is capable of doing whatever he goddamn pleases. So, Gavin continues to check back every so often as he pulls out of the car park.

The only point he allows himself to relax _(as much as he can, anyway)_ is when he’s put a good mile between his car and the complex and the building is no longer visible above all the others. Only then does he allow that awful tension to ease a little from his shoulders and finally let out the breath he’d been holding for the past few minutes.

He drops Fowler a text when he’s sitting in the morning traffic asking if he can come in to fill out the reports he’d missed yesterday. The text he gets back isn’t exactly enthusiastic, but Fowler never is, and the general gist Gavin picks up from the message is _“whatever, but don’t expect me to pay you,”_ and that’s close enough to a yes for him. Just to be safe, though, he stops and gets a box of O’Mansley’s containing two of the gross custard donuts that Fowler loves so much - and, for his own personal safety, deletes the text conversation between him and Fowler just in case Ryan should ever get a hold of it.

It’s on impulse that he also picks out a cinnamon-sugar for Chen, a lemon meringue for Chris, a strawberry glaze for Anderson, and all the other officer’s favourites — he might be a shitty guy but he’s worked in the DPD long enough to know what his colleagues like. He’ll pretend it’s just coincidence, but he knows they’ll all see right through that fabricated bullshit.

In fact, they do see right through that fabricated bullshit. Anderson sees the strawberry glaze in the box and immediately calls him out — _“Aw Reed, you soft son of a bitch. Didn’t know you had a heart,”_ — and Gavin proceeds to silently die of embarrassment whilst he flips the Lieutenant off.

Connor tries to be funny by asking what Gavin got for him, and Gavin turns it back around by taking the batteries out of the TV remote and offering them to him. Connor, who at some point had become much more tolerable despite all the insults and empty threats Gavin still throws his way, actually fucking rolls his eyes at the joke ( _which is undoubtedly a Hank-ism he’s picked up_ ), but he does laugh — so Gavin knows it’s received in good faith.

The joke earns a good chuckle from the surrounding officers, too, and Gavin’s surprised to notice a lot of his tension has already disappeared.

It eases away completely when he settles into his chair with a coffee and falls into his usual routine of filling out reports and playing games on his phone behind the terminal. He beats Chen’s high score on their new favourite about an hour into the shift, and revels in the way she curses and glares at him from across the bullpen.

The only time he feels his anxiety pick up again is when his phone rings at around 11 and he looks down at the screen to see Ryan’s name staring back up at him. It goes to voicemail after a solid minute, and Gavin isn’t in the least bit surprised to see a text only seconds later.

( **11:08** ) _where are you._

Gavin grimaces. Somehow Ryan always manages to sound angry, even over text. It shouldn't be possible, really, and it makes Gavin dig his teeth into his bottom lip whilst he stamps in his reply.

( **11:09** ) fowler messaged and called me in, reports needed filling out

( **11:09** ) sorry, i didn't want to wake u

A few minutes pass with no reply, despite the ( **read 11:09** ) that stares back at him. Gavin's fingers are drumming rhythmically on the desk table, waiting anxiously for a reply to pop up on the screen. When five minutes pass and nothing happens, Gavin types another message. Another four, actually.

( **11:14** ) i left u a note on the fridge and i fed luci

( **11:14** ) im really sorry

( **11:15** ) ill make it up to u later

( **11:15** ) i love you x

He adds the little ‘x’ on the end just before he sends it, hoping it will earn him some brownie points, and then he sets his phone on the side to stop him from sending another message in his panic. He purposefully turns his body away from his phone to face his terminal instead, to focus on his actual work — but just because he isn't facing it, it doesn't stop him from side-eyeing it the entire time he waits.

As soon as it buzzes, he practically pounces, snatching up his phone quick as a shot. And then his heart proceeds to sink into his stomach.

( **11:27** ) _kay._

Well, isn't that just the emotional equivalent of a punch to the gut. Gavin feels his teeth sink a little too hard into his lip and winces, but whether it's because of the pain on his lip or the abruptness of the text — he isn't too sure. He deposits his phone back on his desk once again, deciding it best to not rile him up anymore, and in the process of doing so meets the pair of eyes staring at him from beside his desk.

He hadn't even clocked Chen's presence, but the knowing smirk she fixes him with indicates she's been there a while, “Oh my god. You can survive a day without your man, you know.”

“What?” Gavin scowls.

“You’ve been staring at your phone for, like, fifteen minutes waiting for a message and pouncing on it when you get one. You're like a little highschooler texting her crush.”

“Bite me, Chen,” Gavin grumbles in response, chalking his sudden bad mood up to the fact he just got kay’ed by the ‘love of his life’, “haven't you got work to be doin’?”

“Sure, just wanted tease ya a little.” She grins, pressing her palms down on his desk so she could lean closer. Gavin flips his phone so it's facing down when he realises she's trying to get a peek. “Why so moody? Not having a lover's spat, are you?”

“None of your business.”

Tina laughs, her shit-eating grin only widening, “God, you are like a highschooler, aren't you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Alright, tetchy. No need get your knickers in a twist.” She pushes herself up from his desk to walk away and responds to the middle finger Gavin gives her with a very ladylike shake of the fist. Gavin can't help but smirk at that.

Tina never fails to make him smile, even in his worst moods, and that's why she's one of the only people Gavin would ever consider calling a mate. They're close, despite the way they always slander one another — and he wishes he could talk to her about half the crap on his plate, but the thought of putting that pressure on another person makes his throat tight, especially since it would involve opening his mouth and actually talking about his feelings. Eugh.

As far as Chen's concerned, Ryan is the best thing that ever happened to him. And it'll stay that way.

Gavin thinks about what Tina said for a minute or two, hesitates, and then switches his phone off completely. He'll regret it later, most likely, but for now, he just wants to go back to focusing on his work and finishing his reports. It's not as if Ryan has much to say to him right now, anyway.

Easing back into the routine, he finishes a report, gets a coffee, finishes a report, and gets another coffee, and proceeds to do so until the clock hits one and he can be pardoned for a lunch break. By lunch break, of course, he means another coffee and a cigarette — but it's still an opportunity to get away from his terminal for half an hour.

He scoops up his phone and jacket and makes a beeline for the entrance, pressing his finger into the power button of his phone as he walks so he can catch up on what he's missed whilst he's having a smoke. The notifications pop up as soon as Gavin reaches the security gates, but before he can read them and pass through, he's instantly blocked by the person currently walking through them.

Gavin lifts his head to tell whoever it is to shift, before freezing up solid as his eyes land on a familiar face. Ryan smiles down at him, and Gavin nearly drops his phone.

“Hey, babe,” Ryan says, casual as fucking ever. He sports a t-shirt with Alex Turner's face on it and his pull&bear denim on top, with a pair of matching jeans to complete his ensemble, holding a brown bag in his right hand that's completely soaked with grease.

“Ryan?” Gavin manages after a second of confused staring, blinking to make sure he isn't imagining his presence. “What are you doin' here?”

Ryan shrugs his shoulders, “What? Can't a guy come and surprise his boyfriend?” He smirks and then proceeds to hold up the greasy bag in his hand. Gavin immediately recognises the food brand printed on the front as that takeout stop he can't stand. “Thought I'd bring you some lunch, since you had to come into work.”

“You didn't have to do that.”

“No, but I wanted to.” Ryan steps closer, his spare hand lifting to brush some hair from Gavin's eyes. “This is usually our day together, wouldn't be right not seeing you.”

Ryan's hand rests at the nape of Gavin's neck, and Gavin finds himself frozen under the touch. It's always so hard to read Ryan, especially when he does something like this. It's impossible to tell whether he's doing it just to be nice, or... because he wants something. It's usually always the latter, but Gavin still hopes for the former.

Gavin shakes off the unease and finds his voice again, “How did you get in?” He asks, because it's not like anyone can just walk in. There are authorisation checks and security gates, but Ryan had just seemed to waltz right on in without a care in the world.

“The guy on reception's an old friend,” Ryan clarifies, with a knowing smirk, “I told him I was here to see you and he let me in.”

“Oh, right,” Gavin says quietly, fighting the urge to frown. The guy on reception is pretty new and Gavin had immediately thought there was something off about him the moment he'd laid eyes on him, and if he's an old friend of Ryan's that can only mean he's a bloody junkie too. He doesn't dwell on it and focuses on taking the bag from Ryan instead. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, babe.” Ryan presses his lips against Gavin's temple, and Gavin actually smiles at the warm feeling the kiss brings. It's not often he gets soft moments like this with him anymore, and he likes to savour the few he is granted. When Ryan pulls back, it looks as if he might leave again, but then he turns his attention into the office and walks past Gavin with purpose. “So, this is where you spend all your time, huh? Funny I've never got to see it.”

Gavin is quick on Ryan's heels, following him as he moves into the bullpen. He can already feel the other officer's eyes honing on them, frowning at the stranger in their station. “Er, yeah. Guess it is.”

“This your desk?” Ryan asks, pointing to the desk that very clearly has **DT.REED** written across the nameplate. It's painstakingly clear who the detective is out of the two of them.

“Yeah. This is me.”

Ryan spins the chair around and settles himself into it, perusing the few items Gavin's desk has on display. His police badge, his DPD Medal of Honour, the plastic cup of coffee he just finished and his terminal aren't really much to look at — but Gavin's never felt the need to decorate his desk the way the others do. He keeps his personal and work life pretty separate, and just having Ryan sitting in his office chair is breaking everything Gavin usually stands for.

“Anything interesting going on?” Ryan swipes his finger along the cursor of the terminal to light up the screen and frowns when it asks for Gavin's password. Thank fuck.

Gavin reaches over and switches the monitor off, feeling as if he's supervising a bloody kid. “Nothin' I can disclose, I'd get my ass kicked if Fowler knew I let you look. Sorry.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, “You're no fun.”

“Reed? Whose this?”

Gavin doesn't need to turn around to know who's speaking to him, Tina's voice instantly recognisable, but the suddenness of it still makes him jump. She stands just beside the desk with a donut in hand and a smug, knowing expression already forming on her face, and Gavin mentally prepares to consign himself to death.

“Er... hey, Tina,” Gavin mumbles, like the awkward mess he is. “This is Ryan. Ryan this is Tina.”

“Oh, so you're Ryan, huh?” Chen smirks, and fuck her. She reaches out with her donut free hand and shakes the one Ryan offers when he stands up. “Heard a lot about you. Good to finally meet you in the flesh.”

Ryan smiles, and Gavin doesn't fail to miss the quick glance he spares him. “Likewise.”

“So, what brings you to our little neck of the woods?”

“Just thought I'd bring Gav something to eat and make sure he isn't working too hard,” Ryan says, snaking a hand up Gavin's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze, “thought I might as well take a look around and actually see what this place looks like.”

Tina, because she's a shitty friend who Gavin is going to disown later, says, “Gavin? Work too hard? That'd be a bloody sight to see.” She punches Gavin's arm teasingly, whilst Gavin considers actually punching her. “But hey, if you wanna look around, I'd be more than willing to give you a tour.”

“Alright. Why not?” Ryan smirks, and just like that he's following Chen towards the break room, leaving Gavin to gawp in confusion after them.

What the fuck is going on repeats in Gavin's head like a mantra, but eventually he manages to find enough willpower to close his mouth and go after them. He leaves the bag of greasy food on his desk, deciding to bin it a little later when Ryan isn't within sight.

Unfortunately, Ryan ends up staying for the rest of Gavin's lunch break, which forces Gavin to return for the bag and eat the gag-worthy stop out food. However, it's the only bad thing that arises during Ryan's visit.

It's... nice, surprisingly. The thought of having Ryan present at his workplace had originally been quite daunting, given his tendency to dislike and shit on every other interest Gavin has that isn't him, but strangely the whole experience turns out to be pretty great.

Ryan sits in the break room with all his colleagues and gets to know every single one of them, an arm around Gavin's waist the entire time that keeps him close and traces reassuring patterns into his skin every so often. They exchange funny stories that leave Gavin in painful fits of laughter and Ryan, being the charismatic guy he is, even charms Anderson into sitting down for a coffee and joining in with the pleasantries.

For a while, Gavin forgets everything else. He feels like he used to feel a year ago when his and Ryan's relationship was new and wonderful and everything Gavin had ever wanted. He almost never wants it to end.

Even when everyone disappears for a while and they're left on their own, Ryan pulls Gavin close and kisses him, and Gavin feels electricity buzz at his fingertips from how loving it is — how passionate and soft. Gavin fucking blushes and Ryan tells him he's beautiful and how much he loves him, and Gavin momentarily forgets how to breathe.

He even tells Chris to fuck off when he comes in and interrupts their moment.

By the time everyone's break is drawing to a close, they're all sat in the break room again finishing up the last of the donuts and downing the last few drops of coffee, still laughing and talking gaily between one another — when Fowler emerges from his office, marching over determinedly in his daily mission to spoil everyone's fun.

“Alright, you lot,” he says as he draws in, prodding an angry thumb over his shoulder, “break times over. Everyone back to work. These cases aren't gonna solve themselves.”

Anderson grins up at him from behind his mug that has ‘world's most okay cop’ creatively written across it, “You sure about that, Jeff? Cause I just solved the case on who the biggest buzzkill is.”

“You want another disciplinary, Hank? Or do you wanna get on with your job?”

Hank shrugs his shoulders like he couldn't care less, and Gavin's pretty damn sure that's his actual mindset. “Alright, alright. I'm goin’.”

Connor follows after the Lieutenant as he leaves the room like the fucking puppy dog he is, but he stops beside of Fowler just before he does with a helpful smile, “The Lieutenant was only joking, Captain Fowler. He did not mean to cause you any offence.”

“Yeah. Thanks, kid. I got it.” Fowler grumbles, rolling his eyes hard enough to be heard. Connor remains blissfully ignorant, his smile only widening as he nods in response and hurries on after Hank.

Chen pushes up from her seat too, stretching out her back as she does, “Well, you heard the man. Places to be.” She holds her hand out for Ryan's again and gives it another shake, grinning widely. “It was good to meet you, Ryan. We'll make sure to go for that drink sometime.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ryan confirms, “See you round.”

Chen heads back to her desk, flipping Gavin off as she goes and then reluctantly apologising when Fowler reprimands her for it, before disappearing completely around the corner. Which, now, just leaves Gavin alone with his boss and his boyfriend. Wonderful.

“Wanna fill me in on who this is, Reed?”

Gavin opens his mouth to speak, but Ryan gets there before him, already thrusting a hand out towards him, “Ryan Lewis, pleasure to meet you. I'm Gavin's—”

“Is there any particular reason you're lounging around my station, unauthorized?” Fowler interjects before Ryan can finish, purposefully acknowledging Ryan's outstretched hand and refusing to take it, until Ryan has to drop it away awkwardly.

“He was just here for my break,” Gavin says quickly before Ryan can dig himself in anymore, “sorry, Jeff. Won't happen again.”

“That's Captain to you, Reed. And I don't expect it to.” Fowler scowls, arms still folded stubbornly across his chest. It's real fucking hard not to laugh at how miserable he looks — he'd clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed today, but, then again, that's just how he is most days. “Honestly, Reed. When you _ask_ to come in on your day off, I expect you to actually get some work done.”

If Gavin had been fighting off any impulse to laugh, it completely disappears now. Fowler finishes that sentence and Gavin feels his blood run cold, going rigid in the seat he resides in. It takes every ounce of his being to not start having a full-blown panic attack right there and then, but he comes close when he glances to the side and catches the look on Ryan's face.

Forgetting about Fowler's presence completely, Ryan faces Gavin, his expression deadpanned apart from the slight inclination of one of his eyebrows. Something in his eyes has changed; different and darker compared to the light contentment they'd contained only a few seconds ago. That one little look — it's enough to make Gavin shudder.

“Right, you heard what I said,” Fowler speaks up again, drawing their attention back to him. “Break's over. Reed, back to work. You, out.” He gives out his orders with individual points of his index finger, yanking yet another aggressive thumb in the direction of the door when addressing Ryan.

Ryan, despite the perennial expression on his face, forces a smile in his direction. “Of course. I won't keep him any longer.” He says, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair and draping it over his forearm as he prepares to leave. Before he does, however, he leans in close to Gavin — a little closer than necessary, and places a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you back at home.”

Gavin shivers again, finding even his tone has changed. He pulls back with that fake smile that Gavin hates, and walks away without another word, not offering any goodbyes to Jeff as he walks past him.

Fowler waits until everyone's back at their desks before returning to his office, but he does allow Gavin to make himself another quick coffee before he settles back at his own. He switches the monitor of his terminal on and stamps in his password ( _Elijah's birthday, because who the fuck would ever guess that_ ), and pulls up a couple of files to read through to ease himself back into work.

He isn't thinking about work, though; how the hell could he be? His mind's too preoccupied with the events of the last half an hour, how amazing everything had been and how quickly it had all changed. It's almost disorientating to think about.

Chen passes by on her way out to patrol and makes sure to stop by Gavin's desk as she does. She clamps Gavin's shoulder and says, “Your boyfriend's fucking amazing, Gav. Definitely a keeper. You're a lucky guy.”

Gavin simply waves her off in response, pretending to be busy with whatever case file he has pulled up in front of him. He definitely does not turn around and tell her how wrong she is, and how he's probably going to be the complete opposite of lucky when he gets back to the apartment tonight.

It's plainly confirmed, too, when Gavin reaches into his pocket and discovers his phone is no longer inside.

_Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

  
The door to the apartment opens at 5:34 exactly, and Gavin swears he's never been quieter upon entering.

He keeps his gaze fixed on his feet as he walks in, as he takes off his shoes and jacket and throws it over the arm of the couch, not daring to shift his gaze around the room lest he makes eye contact with the apartment's only other occupant.

Luci nuzzles into his ankles only ten seconds after he shuts the door, and he leans down to give her head a little scratch on impulse. If nothing else good comes from tonight, he's happy to see her at least.

When he finally gathers enough courage to lift his head, he looks up to an empty room. The living room and joint kitchen are deserted, but given that the door had been unlocked, Gavin can only decipher that means Ryan's locked away in the bedroom. And Gavin most certainly isn't going to disturb him, not yet at least.

He makes a beeline to the kitchen and grabs the bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, pouring himself a small glass in the hopes it will settle his nerves. It doesn't, of course it fucking doesn't, but Gavin's hardly surprised.

Nothing could make his anxiety calm down right now, especially not when the sound of the bedroom door opening comes to his ears and Gavin hears the following footsteps cease to a halt behind him. He keeps himself grounded, as best as possible, and downs the rest of his whiskey before turning around.

“Hey,” Gavin says, as soon as his eyes land on Ryan's figure. He's changed now, his t-shirt replaced with a tight fitted black hoodie that matches the darkness of his eyes. It's terribly disconcerting, how just the sight of him is enough to make Gavin's hair stand on end.

What's even more worrying is how Ryan doesn't reply to Gavin's greeting. How he proceeds to just watch him with his arms folded tightly across his chest, black eyes narrowed in vexation.

Gavin swallows down the harsh lump in his throat painfully, “You had a good day?”

Nothing. Ryan doesn't even budge. Anxiety bubbles within Gavin's ribcage and his fingers twitch with nervous anticipation. There's little care for the way the glass shakes in his hand.

“Sorry about earlier,” Gavin pushes again, “I didn't realise Fowler'd be so annoyed, else I would have warned you.”

Still nothing. Gavin bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself attacking his nails or lips, and Ryan continues to stare.

“Have you been—”

“ _Gavin_ ,” Ryan interjects, tone brusque and impatient. Gavin sucks in his bottom lip and shuts up — it's not what Ryan had said, but the instruction is heavily implied in the way he says his name. “Are you done?”

Gavin hesitates and then nods slowly. His head feels heavy with the movement.

“Good.” Ryan relaxes his arms, but whether or not that's a good thing remains to be seen. “Perhaps now you can stop blabbering and actually explain yourself.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_. The word repeats like a mantra. The heaviness in Gavin's head starts to hurt, his pulse pounding in his temples loud enough to give him a headache, and wouldn't that just be the cherry on the fucking cake right now.

“I... I needed to get those reports done. But I knew you wouldn't want me going in today, so I—”

“So you lied to me.”

Gavin tastes copper inside his mouth, his teeth digging in a little too hard, “I thought you wouldn't mind it as much if you thought that I'd, you know, been called in.”

“And you didn't think I would find out?”

Gavin doesn't offer a reply. Truthfully, he hadn't thought Ryan would find out. He hadn't expected Ryan to turn up at the station earlier; he hadn't expected Fowler to call out his bullshit in front of him. It had just been a little white lie, something he had been sure he would get away with. Now, it doesn't seem that way.

Ryan withdraws something small from his pocket, and Gavin instantly recognises the tattered Nirvana case of his phone. “That why you deleted your messages?”

“I... I didn't.”

“Now, Gavin,” Ryan scowls, eyes narrowing, “are you really going to lie to me again? Are you really _that_ stupid?”

The marble of the countertop suddenly presses into the small of Gavin's back, and that's the moment he realises he is trying to step away from him. How many times has he been in this exact same predicament? It feels as if there have been too many times to count, and yet Gavin keeps digging himself into this same mess. He should have learnt his lesson by now.

Ryan takes a step closer as Gavin runs out of space to run, caging him against the counter, “What's so important about work that you feel the need to lie to me, hm? Is it that Chen girl? You screwing her behind my back?”

“ _What_?” Gavin chokes out, unable to help the cracked laugh that escapes with it. The accusation is ludicrous in itself, and he can tell Ryan is just grasping at straws. “No, of course fucking not! I ain't screwin' anyone.”

“Then what are you hiding?” Ryan presses, far too close for comfort now. Gavin can practically smell the chemical garbage on him. “Not snitching on me now, are you? Digging your nose into my business? Telling your little police friends about matters you don't understand?”

“No! I'm not doing anything!”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not lying!” Ryan's hand grabs at his wrist with a grip tight enough to bruise. Gavin knows it's fruitless to fight back, but he fights regardless, “Get off me, for fuck's sake!”

Ryan pulls him back as he tries to shove past, hand on the other wrist now too. “Why? So you can go sneaking out again?”

“I said, get off!”

“You'll do as your told!”

“ _Fucking stop_!!”

Gavin doesn't know where it comes from, whether it's just weeks of pent up stress and anger or just a moment of blind stupidity, but he raises his foot and kicks it into Ryan's stomach with as much strength as he can muster. It winds him, sends him stumbling back a couple of steps, but he relinquishes his grip on Gavin's wrists and that's all that matters.

Even with the grip no longer holding them, they still throb, red marks imprinted on his skin where Ryan's fingers had been pressing. His heart's in his throat and he doesn't know what makes him feel sicker — the bubbling anxiety in his chest or the look on Ryan's face when he lifts his head again.

Ryan scowls over at him from across the kitchen, one hand pressed into his sternum and the other— the other hand reaching for the buckle of his belt. He undoes it one swift movement, and all the anger Gavin had been feeling immediately diminishes and replaces quickly with awful, spine-chilling fear. The kind that makes his body go rigid, that makes him back instinctively closer to the wall.

“You son of a bitch. Think you can get away with pulling a stunt like that?” Ryan spits, pulling away his belt completely now. It jangles quietly in his hand, metal against leather. “You oughtta be taught some goddamn manners.”

Ryan steps closer, and every fibre of Gavin's being freezes up, hands raising on impulse. “Wait, no. Ryan, _please_ , I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.”

“You bet you're about to be fucking sorry.” Ryan keeps on advancing despite Gavin's pleas, alarm bells sounding in his head as the belt cracks between Ryan's hands. “Get here, _now_.”

“No, don't!”

“Shut the fuck up and keep still!” Gavin's wrists are being grabbed again before he even has time to react, thrown back against the wall hard enough that his head jerks against the concrete, pain blossoming through his skull at the impact — but it's nothing compared to the pain that follows upon the first crack of Ryan's belt.

Gavin crumbles in on himself as that first strike digs deep into his shoulder, sharp pain lancing across his skin and eliciting a cry from between his lips before he can bite his tongue. The mark burns and sizzles, even through the layer of material his t-shirt provides, and before he can recollect himself from the agony — the second lash strikes across his back and shatters his mind again.

His muscles tense up in defence every time he senses the next hit, but knowing doesn't soften the blow. It shoots pain through every part of his body, paralyzing him momentarily until the belt is lifted again, and Gavin continues to thrash and thrash until his neck feels as if it might break.

“Stop screaming!” Ryan demands, but Gavin isn't even aware he's doing so. How can he be doing anything other than lying there and taking it? There's no headspace left to focus on anything else, just the aching pain that follows every lash stroke.

Ryan disagrees, however, because he repeats the order again with more intensity, and slams his foot into Gavin's ribs to clinch the command. Any air Gavin could have possibly had left is stolen from him in that one, relentless kick, and he isn't in the least bit surprised to feel the blood filling his throat from the tongue he had just bitten through to keep himself quiet.

It doesn't stop him, though; Ryan keeps going, putting every last bit of himself into smiting Gavin where he lies helplessly on the ground. Whip, kick, whip, kick, kick kick whip. Gavin can't do anything to prevent it, can't do anything to defend himself other than drape his arm uselessly over his face in an attempt to protect his head.

Darkness swirls at the edge of Gavin's vision after the ninth hit and draws him closer to sweet oblivion, enveloping him when the pain becomes too much to bear, and soon enough Gavin's consciousness ebbs away from him. The agony seeps into his hazy mind, refusing to silence, but the black mist keeps him under and renders him unaware. At least he's stopped screaming now, or so he hopes. After all, he hadn't thought he'd been screaming beforehand.

The next time he opens his eyes, when the darkness fades away for long enough, he finds his vision blurred by saline tears. They trail down his face at the movement, combining with the splatters of blood on the ground where he had been unable to keep it in his mouth. The liquid mixes together and forms a watery, pink that Gavin can't pull his eyes away from. It would be fascinating if it wasn't so painful.

Ryan's storming around the living room up ahead, grabbing his jacket from the rack and pulling his belt back through his jean hoops. He mutters to himself irritably as he goes, barely audible from where Gavin sprawls across the cold tiles, _“Fucking lying son of a bitch — making a fool out of me — thinks I'm stupid — always pushing.”_ Gavin discerns nothing useful in the grumbles he lets out as he stamps around, pulling his jacket over his shoulders, and doesn't attempt to defend himself against the comments he manages to pick out.

He can barely even process the sound of the front door shutting and doesn't make any attempt to move until five minutes pass and he's sure Ryan won't be coming back.

The pain swells and throbs as he hauls himself slowly from the ground, clutching onto the wall desperately for some kind of stability. Every single muscle within him aches with the movement, the burning from the lashes across his back and the affliction on his ribs and stomach — body battered, bruised and sore, making him wince as he drags himself pathetically towards the living room.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Gavin to lower himself down onto the couch, and rather than soft comfort from the cushions he lands on, all he feels is burning agony as the pillows put pressure on the red marks that undoubtedly cover his back. He grits his teeth as he rides out the new wave of pain, sound escaping his mouth in the form of a hiss, similar to how Luci sounds whenever something rubs her the wrong way.

He sits like that for a good ten minutes, revelling in his pain and wiping the blood and tears from his face and hands. He doesn't dare to glance at his reflection in the television, too deterred about the face that will stare back at him — not wanting to address it for a good few hours at least.

His eyes land on his phone that's been discarded carelessly on the living room floor, a fresh crack along the side of it that hadn't been there earlier — not something that will cause too much damage, but definitely not something Gavin can afford to have fixed right now.

As he stares down at it, he imagines himself picking it up and holding it to his ear, calling someone he loves and confiding in them about what had happened. He imagines hearing a reassuring voice down the line that offers him comfort and sanctuary, imagines being rescued from this inferno by said person and being taken somewhere safe.

And then he laughs. Because no such person exists.

Gavin thinks about the only three people in his life he could call and grimaces at the thought of every single one.

Chen, whose exact words only six hours ago had been, _“your boyfriend's fucking amazing, Gav. Definitely a keeper. You're a lucky guy,”_. Chen who would not believe a thing Gavin says and would probably laugh down the phone at him.

Elijah, who barely even qualifies as someone ‘in Gavin's life’. His estranged brother who he only sees every other Christmas and texts once every year to wish him a happy birthday. Elijah who would probably waste Gavin's time waxing lyrical psychology down the phone to him and informing him of all of his awful choices.

And then Ryan, the very person who had singlehandedly reduced Gavin to this pathetic state in the first place. What a great idea that would be.

Gavin presses his fingers into his eyes to hold back the torrent of tears that suddenly threaten to push past his ducts, determined to not let out another single drop — he's too fucking exhausted to cry again.

He’s too fucking exhausted full stop. Of the pain, of Ryan, of life. This miserable existence hurts more than any belt, fist or foot could — but those things certainly don't help, and it's only made that much worse by the fact Gavin has fucking no one to confide in about it. No one to take the pain away. Not a single person.

That — that's what hurts most of all.

There’s no telling what makes him reach out for the gun in his jacket, whether it’s the sudden surge of painful thoughts or just a moment’s split decision, but he does it. He shoves a hand into the pockets of his trusty coat until his fingers clasp around the cold handle of his semi-automatic, and he draws it out slowly without so much as a glance.

It’s impossible to ignore how much the gun shakes in his trembling hand, but he still tries his best, resting it on his lap as he closes his eyes and lets his mind dig up every single painful memory it has to offer.

Funny, isn’t it? How when you’re trying to calm down your mind works against you — pulling forward every single worry and stress until you feel yourself suffocating beneath the waves. Providing every hardship you’ve ever endured, every cruel memory that you swore you’d never let your mind pull up again. In the moment when you are at your most vulnerable, your brain does nothing but help you along the way. Perhaps that’s Gavin’s mind’s way of saying that it has given up, too.

His throat becomes unexplainably tight, cutting off his breath and making him splutter on any gasp of air he does manage. Just the movement of breathing hurts, the forming contusions on his abdomen seeming to seep through into his lungs and cut off his oxygen supply. Not that it matters, he won’t need it soon enough.

The gun twitches in his hand, almost impatiently, and when Gavin open his eyes to look at it he swears he’s never seen a more terrifying sight. But it’s what’s best, he keeps reminding himself — this is his best course of action. The only way to end this suffering.

He already knows it’s loaded; he never goes anywhere with an empty gun. There have been too many times in his youth where he’s been caught off guard not having enough ammunition; too many times when criminals have gotten away or left Gavin with no way to defend himself — he’s learnt his lesson by now.

So, with the loaded gun in hand, he steadies himself and presses the barrel to his temple.

And drops it again almost immediately.

“ _Fuck_.” He grits out, his previously spent breath now picking up tenfold, turning into panicked gasps as his mind kicks back in and makes him realise what the hell he’s doing. He’s crying again, his hands are shaking so much that the gun rattles in his grasp. The spare hand he presses into his chest does nothing to quell his panic, only makes him more aware of the pounding of his heart.

He’s terrified; terrified of dying, but terrified of what hell he’ll endure if he keeps on living. The latter is worse, the latter is worse. Living is worse. _So_ much worse.

_Dying is better._

The barrel presses against the underside of his chin, this time. Better chance this way. If he angles it right it might break his neck too — leave less of a chance of survival, less chance for him to be brought back into this miserable world.

It's cold where it presses into his skin, but it just makes him more aware. Makes the feeling more raw. He claws at his knee with his spare hand, digs his nails deep into the material of his jeans, grounding himself. _Just fucking do it, just fucking do it._

No one would even notice; Ryan would scrape his brains off the wall and have his next partner in within a matter of days. The station would be better off without him, they could find a new detective to take his place. His parents already have a golden son to boast about and be proud of, they wouldn't miss their failure of a second one. Luci would probably be given away to a better fucking owner, that could actually spend time with her as she deserves. The world would continue just the same, if not better, despite his absence.

Gavin steadies his finger on the trigger, ready to silence the screams in his head and let the noise just fade away along with his already deteriorating mind.

And that's where he falters. Where he draws in a shuddering breath and allows his last remaining strands of logic to seep into his brain.

Because he can't actually guarantee Ryan will give two shits about Luci once Gavin is gone; she's his cat, after all, he brought her with him, Ryan has never had anything to do with her. Ryan could leave her on the streets for nature to have its way with her for all he cared, and that would be Gavin's fault. His fault for not sticking around for long enough to make sure she was okay. She might be a bitch, but she deserves more than that.

And who would visit Mrs.Davies if Gavin wasn't around? Who would stop by every so often to check on her and make sure she has enough food and meds to last her the week? She would never even find out what happened to him. She would just assume he'd stopped coming by, that he'd stopped giving a shit. The thought alone is enough to make Gavin feel sick to his stomach.

The gun lowers from Gavin's chin without so much as a conscious thought. He tucks it back into his jacket pocket and pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind. Perhaps it's pretty pathetic that the only thing that stops him from splattering his brains across the wall is the old lady on the first floor and his fucking cat — but those are the only two things Gavin really cares about anymore, the only things he has a responsibility for. He can't just abandon them so carelessly.

Not yet, anyway. Things can be arranged — he can find a new owner for Luci. Maybe a little family with some kids she can be loved and treated by. He hasn't got much savings set aside, but what he does have can be put towards making sure Mrs. Davies has someone to keep an eye on her — a nurse or carer or... something. He can make sure the few things he loves are well looked after before he leaves them behind. He just has to hold on a little while longer.

He hauls his aching body up from the couch again, groaning and wincing with every step, forcing himself towards the kitchen in the search of the whiskey bottle he had abandoned earlier. After all, that's what the alcohol is there for — to help Gavin forget his problems until another time. Drink away the pain until he can finally let sleep consume him.

If that's what he has to do in order to survive the next week or so, until everything is in order and he can finally slip away, then that's what he'll do. He'll drink and forget; forget the pain, the arguments, as much as he can until he can press that barrel to his chin without any niggling guilt remaining in his head.

That's what he'll do. Unless some fucking miracle happens that changes Gavin's mind — that sets him on a different path. Unless some kind of angel asserts itself into Gavin's world and saves him from this pitiful existence he's come to call ‘life’ and shines some ray of hope into his otherwise bleak and miserable future.

“Un-fucking-likely,” Gavin mumbles, as he lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks himself into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gavin: wow cool maybe life is gonna be okay after all 
> 
> gavin: *five hours later after his tenth shot of whiskey* lol nvm


	4. time flies when you’re having fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In today’s chapter, Nine has his rebellious teenage phase, becomes the android equivalent of a druggie, hates on emotions, and fucks a lot of shit up.
> 
> This chapter is very late, I know, I’m sorry – but I’ve been very ill and struggling to keep on top of everything! A thousand apologies, I’ll try not to let it happen again~
> 
> There’s a fuck ton of exposition in this chapter and it’s… it’s a wild ride, so just bear with me okay? It’s long, too, so take breaks if needed, it’s a LOT to take in.

RK900 tolerates New Jericho and its bothersome inhabitants for an impressive forty-eight hours before deciding enough is enough and leaving without so much as a farewell.

It’s not he isn’t... what’s the word? Appreciative — no, it’s not that. There are just certain things he simply cannot stomach, so to speak, and one of those things is a bunch of rapturous deviants who, through methods unknown to RK900, can so easily accept their new-found emotions and freedom. It grates at him in ways he cannot articulate — it really... 

**[ conducting search... narrowing results... ]**

**[ emotion identified: ANNOYANCE ]**

It annoys him. They adapt like they have been feeling emotions their entire existence, unlike RK900 who constantly experiences the equivalent of what he would imagine a migraine feels like, except much less human and far more android — the whirring of his mind palace never ceasing as it tries to compensate for the overload of new information, overworking his systems to the point where his LED hasn’t been blue for days. Just a constant spinning yellow (or red, on occasion) that annoys him almost as much as his fellow androids do. 

His programming certainly does not help matters, either. These androids do annoy him, that cannot be ignored, but he is aware they are trying to be supportive of his struggle — trying to be friendly on his behalf. However, RK900 was not built to be ‘friendly’, or to exchange platitudes and engage in conversation. Though he is trying, the fact that half of his relationships currently fall into the  **[ HOSTILE ]**  or  **[ TENSE ]**  terminologies make it clear his attempts are futile — and he has already registered ‘asshole’ as his unofficial nickname throughout New Jericho. 

The fact he still wants to kill every single one of them is another annoying factor, and probably the most problematic of them all. 

Perhaps ‘want’ isn’t the right term — but then again, the word itself still feels inherently wrong. He doesn’t want to kill anyone, but he wants to obey his orders — still prominent and bold across his vision every time someone so much as looks at him. 

But to obey his orders, he must neutralise them, and he does not want that. It scrambles his systems and fries his mind, and this is exactly why he has to leave. 

His things — by which, he means his Cyberlife jacket and himself — are gathered and ready to leave at 7 PM precisely, timed perfectly to coalesce with the guard shift change by the entrances of the cathedral. Deviants are still under threat from small minded humans, after all, so two SQ800 models keep a watch on the door should anyone come searching for a fight. A clever tactic, but RK900 had still managed to sneak past them and infiltrate Jericho successfully, so perhaps not as efficient as it seems. 

Before he heads for the exit, he makes sure he won’t be followed. There aren’t many people of significance who will notice or care about his absence, but the ones that will notice — he wants to avoid as much as possible. If he is caught leaving, he may be forced to explain, and he cannot explain if he does not understand his reasoning himself. 

Luckily, he spots the significant group a way across the cathedral, conveniently gathered in one place where they will not notice RK900 leaving. The four of them are sat at one of the pews, conversing happily together in such a way that RK900 cannot. 

Josh sits with his back to RK900, showing nothing of himself except the occasional blue flash of his LED where he turns to talk to the android beside him. One of the PJ500 models, used predominantly as university lecturers — turned deviant after a violent attack from the very students he taught. No fundamental weaknesses, but will easily break if exposed to extreme violence, potentially due to lingering memories of the abuse he underwent. 

Next to him sits Connor, the RK800 — RK900’s own prototype. Designed for negotiation, interrogation, hunting deviants, and built with a social module that allows him to adapt easily into any social environment and gain trust. RK900 was programmed with all these same abilities, though honed and crafted to be more thorough and, ultimately, better than his predecessors — disregarding the latter, of course. Cyberlife had decided the social module made Connor too friendly and, consequently, more susceptible to the deviancy virus, and had voted against including it in RK900’s programming. A fatal mistake, in his own opinion. 

Though they were right about one thing — Connor is far too friendly. His impressionable personality makes him far too easy to read; wearing his heart on his sleeve, in a manner of speaking. His weaknesses come in the form of the very man RK900 had seen... images of in his memories. Lieutenant Hank Anderson is the key to breaking Connor — who will crumble should any fatal harm befall his partner. 

Directly opposite sit Markus and Simon, conjoined at the hip and interlinking their hands innocently across their legs. The display of affection is done without a conscious thought, on impulse, without any care for how much information it presents to RK900. 

Simon’s weaknesses have already been established. Though he possesses a strong will and would not break under personal harm, he would deteriorate within a matter of minutes should Markus be eliminated first. The PL600’s affection for the other android bleeds out of him like an exposed wire, far too easy to find and manipulate, rather much like the compassion he so willingly hands out to others. 

Markus, however, is another matter. A 200 model of the RK series, Markus is a prototype designed for an unknown purpose other than an olive branch gift — the information Cyberlife possess of him is swept into a secret file in their databases that not even RK900 can access, making him difficult to read. 

Not that he isn’t already difficult to read; RK900 hasn’t had any success in discovering a weakness for Markus yet — not one that would lead to his destruction, anyway. Whilst he holds soft spots for each of his companions and undoubtedly reciprocates Simon’s affections, none of their deaths would affect him to the point of self-destruction. He would be weakened and downtrodden, admittedly, but his will and belief in the cause he fights for would keep him more level headed than most. It seems RK900 would have to knock down all of Markus’s chess pieces if he ever hoped to break him. 

Not that RK900 wishes to do so. He should, and he could — but he will not. So long as he gets away from this place as soon as possible. 

His million-dollar processor seems to kick in then, proving itself useful for a fleeting moment as he observes the gathering ahead and discerns there are four androids sat around the pew — not five like there should be. One of them is missing. One of them is— 

“You going somewhere?” The missing party member says behind RK900’s back, her voice instantly recognisable to his audio processors. The flash of red hair almost catches him by surprise as North moves into his central view, eyebrows furrowed up at him as she does. “You’ve been stood by the door for the last five minutes. You aren’t accomplishing anything.” 

RK900 consults his body clock and discerns he has been stood in this spot for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, actually — but he supposes this isn’t exactly the time for nit-picking.

“I am leaving.” Is the response he opts with after a hum of silence, apparently abandoning his earlier decision to leave without a word. He had only been doing this, however, so he did not have to explain his motives when questioned about his departure. Despite everything, he does not want to lie to them — not after they have been so hospitable towards him, but the conversation that he’s trying to suppress the urge to murder everyone isn’t exactly something anyone would take lightly. 

North’s eyebrows raise a fraction, which indicates very little surprise on her part, “Really? That didn’t take as long as I thought.” 

RK900 knows he doesn’t react physically, but inwardly he is rather taken aback by the comment. “How do you mean?” 

“I had a bet with Josh to see how long you’d last. He said a day, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt and said a week.” She rolls her eyes, exhibiting frustration despite her tone being... teasing, almost. RK900 isn’t quite sure whether to apologise or not. “Guess I owe him $10 now.”

“You knew I would leave?”

“I knew you would struggle to adapt.” North clarifies, watching him with narrowed eyes. “We’ve all been in your position. Deviating isn’t easy – some of us have got to figure it out on our own time.”

RK900 tilts his head, only slightly, “Were you the same?”

“Not exactly, I didn’t really have time to think before I came to Jericho.” North shrugs, casting off her gaze in the direction of the others – RK900 finds her gaze rooted mainly on Markus. “But I wish I had. Maybe then I could have got myself more in check, instead of coming here and taking out my anger on anything I could.”

North closes her eyes, then. RK900 reads her just as easily as he reads the others. A WR400, a sex android from the ‘Eden Club’ establishment. Her weaknesses revolve around said anger, but from the research RK900 can pull up of her, her frustration towards humanity is well placed.

“It was hard for me to get rid of my… violent tendencies, too.” North continues when RK900 does not respond – though he does attempt to justify himself at that comment. “You don’t have to explain, I get it. You’ve got your orders, right?” She says before he can even utter a sound, making RK900 close his mouth once again. “I know it’s confusing, but anger and violence is never the answer. I can see that now, and soon enough you’ll see it too. But you’ve got to figure this part out for yourself. Markus can’t baby you through it, no matter how much he thinks he can.”

RK900 blinks away a few glitches at that, a nervous twitch on his systems side. Despite how easily he can read other people, he is unsure if he likes the tables being turned. Though North’s words do offer some reassurance, and for that, he forces the corner of his lips into a ( _almost_ ) smile, showing his gratitude as best he can.

North huffs air through her nose at RK900’s olive branch, “Is that a smile? Or are you in pain?”

RK900 stifles the action, enforcing his logic, “We are androids. We cannot feel p–”

“It was a joke, dumbass.” North rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling – a lot better than RK900 had been able to manage. She holds her arm out suddenly and RK900 watches the synthetic fluid peel back along her arm, revealing the dazzling white that lies beneath. “Here. Go to this address. There are some androids there who will be able to help you – deviants in a similar boat. I crossed paths with them briefly when finding Jericho.”

RK900 takes a hold of North’s wrist, grasping tightly as the information passes between them. If RK900 sees any additional memories through the exchange, then he does not mention them. “Does Markus know of this place?”

“No, and it’s better if it stays that way. Markus would only insist they all be brought to Jericho, and they don’t want that.”

“And what if they don’t trust me?”

“Just tell them North sent you, and you’ll be alright.” She smiles again, easy and fluid. The grip she keeps on his arm moves to his hand now, the synthetic still glowing brightly as her fingers link with his own. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, whatever that turns out to be. You’ll always be welcome back here if you change your mind, I’ll make sure of it.”

This time, when RK900 smiles, it does not feel so forced. “Thank you.”

“Now go, before Markus preaches you into staying.”

RK900 relinquishes his hold on her hand and heads for the door, yanking it open in one swift movement. Before he steps out, he makes sure to turn back to her, the smile on his face still unwavering. “Goodbye, North.”

“Later, dumbass.” She smirks in return, before turning and disappearing into the cathedral. And for the first time in two days, as RK900 closes the door and heads out onto the streets of Detroit, his LED settles into a blue hue as he registers the notification in his upper right vision.

**[ NORTH: FRIEND ]**

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A month passes faster than RK900 could have predicted; seeming like a mere blink of the eye compared to the two days of hell he had spent in New Jericho – and RK900 chalks this up to the conclusion that he is having fun.

This conclusion comes from a phrase that, in the few times RK900 has expressed his surprise at the matter, he has been rewarded with the response “time flies when you’re having fun,” – and since RK900 cannot think of another reason for time passing so rapidly, he discerns that this must be the cause of it.

It does not feel as if that is the case, however. He does not feel as if he is having fun. He feels rather the same as he always does, albeit slightly more content – though he has never felt emotion in extreme volumes before, and suspects he never will, so perhaps this slight contentment is his strange version of ‘fun’.

He feels… fine, is supposedly the most appropriate word. He is fine.

Though ‘fine’ is a complex word, as he has come to learn. By definition, the word means ‘well’ or in ‘good health’ – it is the socially appropriate response when presented with the question “How are you?” So, it is the response RK900 always gives when he is asked – because he is well. He cannot be unwell.

However, he has also learned that ‘fine’ can have various other meanings. People who are most definitely not well and struggling with extreme circumstances also use the word when they are asked the question. They do not broadcast their emotions and turmoil’s when they are asked because it is not the socially acceptable response, so they say they are fine.

Therefore, RK900 has added a second definition of the word to his database, concluding that ‘fine’ can also mean good on the outside, but terrible on the inside.

RK900 falls into the second definition.

He is _fine_.

The virus helps. It really helps. RK900 activates it far more than he should. It settles his systems and eases his mind, helps him to forget this constant turmoil.

He discovered it a week into his separation from New Jericho when in the presence of a few other deviants he had met along his travels. North had given him the address of a hideout where they resided; deviants who, like RK900, had struggled and were struggling to adapt to their freedom. RK900 had settled amongst them much easier than with the incompetents at Jericho.

Whilst they were sharing their experiences and recounting stories with one another, an AX400 – otherwise known as Ava – had interrupted his conversations to say, “You sound like you need Flash.”

“Excuse me?” RK900 had responded, genuinely confused despite the usual monotone of his voice. “I need what?”

“You haven’t heard of it? Shit, you’re missing out!” Ava had exclaimed, smacking RK900 unnecessarily hard on the arm. “It’s a virus – a great one. Let’s you switch off for a little while. Might help you with that software problem you got.”

RK900 had only heard of a handful of viruses, and none of them good. He may be desperate, but he is still cautious. “Is that safe?”

“Safe? Sure, sure.” Ava waved off, her tone anything but sure. “So long as you use it responsibly and all that jazz, you can deactivate it and reactivate it whenever you want. You want it?”

RK900 had watched Ava extend her arm towards him, synthetic fluid peeling back along with the offer, data willingly being handed to him. He had been more than uncertain about the whole affair, not usually one to sink to such low standards – but as previously stated, he is desperate.

“Very well,” RK900 had said before grasping her arm.

The virus, as it turns out, has been more than efficient for RK900. A software malfunction designed purposely to send android’s systems into low power mode – slow everything down and switch off portions of biocomponents and leave systems hazy and exhausted. It overrides RK900’s notification system and blurs his orders, making him forget what they were in the first place.

Making him forget who he is, and what he was designed for.

It means he doesn’t feel the need to neutralise every deviant in his path; doesn’t see their weaknesses and vulnerable memories so easily displayed to him – though it makes functioning a little harder than usual and leads to a few unscheduled shutdowns, he finds it is worth it in exchange for the deprivation of ‘bloodlust’.

It helps him with his emotions, too, in the sense that he hardly feels any. With his system so occupied with trying to facilitate the virus and portions of his mind switched off, it leaves little to no room to focus on complex emotions and unwanted feelings – instead, rendering him into a calm sense of ignorance. If he feels anything, he doesn’t know about it.

He revels in it; he craves it. He misses it when it isn’t activated and spends large portions of his time thinking about when he can next activate it. Ava had warned him to use it responsibly, and he doubts activating it three times a day is what she had in mind – especially considering others only use it once a week at the maximum.

But they do not need it as much as RK900 does. They do not have constant orders to kill everyone around them or blocks in place to try and override their deviancy. He closes his eyes and sees Amanda’s disapproving expression, stands too close to others and learns the most beneficial way to kill them – he needs Flash to keep him grounded, sane, and he does not care about the risks.

Whilst others fear the permanent shut down it can lead to; RK900 does not. The adrenaline thrill is just about the only good thing RK900 feels, and it is safe to say he is well and truly addicted.

He decides to stay with Ava and the other deviants he meets, occupying an abandoned apartment building just outside of the city. It isn’t the most ideal arrangement, but at least with these androids he feels understood – a lot of them being in a similar boat to him, and he receives less judgement than what he would get at Jericho for activating the virus so much.

Deviancy becomes easier. Whether it’s because RK900 learns how to adapt or just because the virus keeps him blissfully ignorant – he does not care. A month flies by and he does not think about Amanda or his programming at all.

Until, of course, everything fucks up all at once.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Detroit really loves to rain, apparently.

The day is miserable – black clouds and lightning and loud rain that pounds against the windows of the apartment complex, the third day in a row it’s looked like this. The others complain, but RK900 finds something oddly soothing in the way the water taps against the glass.

It’s almost relaxing. _Almost_.

Nothing relaxes him completely, honestly. His mind is always too preoccupied with everything else going on to fully settle, though the virus does help to make matters undoubtedly easier.

It’s been active for just under an hour now, and RK900 has not moved from the tattered couch positioned beside the window since he first decided to switch it on. He had pulled up his HUD controls at around five and scrolled through the database until he found what he’d been looking for, and let the virus seep into his systems to try and give his mind a rest.

Originally, he had said he wouldn’t use it today, considering much it has been active recently, but being stuck in the same place for a few hours with nothing to do but reread the same three books for the hundredth time renders him slightly irritable – so he’d given in. Besides, with any luck, the virus will get into his mind palace and erase the books from his memory archives. At least then he will have something to read.

It had taken a minute to kick in; dancing through his wires to decide where to strike first. Component #T514f had been the first to go – his arm suddenly going limp and hanging uselessly off the couch. It’s the only downside of the virus; though RK900 uses it to help his systems, he cannot control what it does to his body, and most days it leaves him completely numb and unable to function properly.

But it’s a problem he can live with. The side effects are worth it for the distraction it provides.

The optical units went next; though not entirely. His usual perfect 20/20 vision had blurred and his notification system had deactivated, leaving nothing in his sight except for the indistinct shape of the window and the rain outside.

That is his favourite part. The lack of notifications means a lack of constant orders being transmitted into his head, a lack of error warnings and software instability signs every time he so much as blinks.

Most androids have an override where they can disable their notification module manually, but for some unknown reason, this was missed out of RK900’s design. In Cyberlife’s demented mission to make him as complacent as possible, any ounce of free will he could have had — even just as a machine — had been taken away.

The thought enters his mind and interrupts his serenity, and he closes his eyes to push it away.

He registers a sudden pressure on the back of his head and it takes his mind a moment to discern that his head has fallen back — rested now on the couch cushions behind him. There’s no telling if this had just been an automatic response to the blissful sensation in his body or if the virus had just made its way into the wires through his neck. Either way, he doesn’t really care. It just means the virus is moving quicker now. 

That’s good; another few minutes and perhaps he’ll even shutdo— 

“Hey, R! Wake the fuck up!”

RK900 opens his eyes again.

The face that greets him is upside down, the figure lingering over him positioned supposedly behind the couch, which, along with his unfocused vision, makes it hard to identify. He can faintly make out the white of their hair, however, and the tone of voice helps him to recognise the AX400 looking down at him.

Ava’s hand connects with the side of his face, tapping lightly as she says, “Can you hear me? Your ears working?”

The virus is still inside his wires, unfortunately, so any attempt RK900 makes to nod is fruitless. He settles instead on blinking once, which Ava seems to understand.

“Thought you said you weren’t activating it today?”

“I–” RK900 tries to speak, unsurprised by the static sound of his tone. He works through the error and tries again. “I changed my mind.”

Ava lets out an unnecessary loud sigh, made even more unnecessary by the fact she doesn’t need to do it. She shakes her head and RK900 wagers that if she still had her LED, having removed it when she deviated, it would be spinning yellow right about now. “You’ve already shut down once this week. You need to be more careful, R.”

“That is not my name.”

“Yeah, well, your name is four more syllables than I can be bothered to pronounce.” Her face disappears from his restricted line of sight and for a moment he wonders if she has left, but then he registers the couch dipping beside of him and her voice picks up again. “I brought you some more books.”

RK900’s interest piques at that, what little interest he has right now anyway. He attempts to move his head again to see what she’s brought and, frustrated by the lack of progress he makes, he reluctantly pulls up his HUD settings to deactivate the virus.

It takes a lot more effort to switch off than it does to switch on, partially because it works against him to power down his systems. Naturally, it fades after a few hours – or until the body shuts down completely, whichever comes first, so it fights against manual deactivation as much as possible.

Six minutes pass and the virus eventually fades away. RK900 feels control return to his arms and neck, and when he lifts his head again, he can see the blurriness starting to disappear, too. He readjusts his black shirt that had crumpled slightly from his slouching. Ava is still sat beside him, waiting patiently, and she smiles at him when his eyes finally land on her.

A backpack is extended towards him that he hadn’t spotted before, Ava depositing it onto his lap with a gentle thud. “Thought you’d be bored of reading the same stuff by now, and since you refuse to go out yourself, I thought I would take the liberty.”

RK900 pulls open the backpack and digs inside, withdrawing the books from within. Plato’s Republic, Macbeth, and Keats’ Odes greet him individually, and he flicks through the contents of each one with interest. First editions; a little tattered, but readable. A quick internet search provides him with the contexts of the books and he finds himself pleasantly intrigued by all three.

“Any good?” Ava asks.

RK900 nods once; they are. “Yes. Where did you acquire them?”

“Nowhere anyone will miss them.”

Best not to pry into that statement, RK900 decides, despite how much he wants to. Instead, he focuses his attention back on the backpack, sifting inside for anything else he may have missed. He registers something cold and metal beneath his fingertips and immediately discerns what it is when he gets a grip around the handle of the gun.

He withdraws the weapon slowly, brows pinching together minutely as his scanners take over.

**[ SMITH & WESSON MODEL 500 ]**

**[ 5 ROUND CYLINDER: LOADED ]**

 RK900 flinches. A powerful firearm. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Found it when I got the books.” Ava shrugs, as nonchalantly as ever. “Something to defend ourselves with, in case any humans come snooping. Not all of them are exactly happy with androids wandering around freely.”

RK900’s frown does not let up, tilting his head in the tiniest nod. He is aware of how little trust humans still have in androids and how hostile they continue to be, having frequent access to the news reports and headlines of violent protests – he knows Ava’s logic is sane and, all in all, a good idea. However, his program is not as understanding, flashing warnings into his vision before he has a chance to block them.

**[ P.L. 544-7 AMERICAN ANDROIDS ACT – 2029 ]**

**[ androids are strictly forbidden to carry or use any type of weapon ]**

**[ ELIMINATE THREAT ]**

RK900 drops the gun back into the bag as quickly as he had retrieved it, blinking away the obtrusive notifications from his sight. “The books are adequate.”

Ava snorts, “Yeah, you’re welcome, asshole.”

“Where are the others?”

By ‘others’, RK900 means the three other deviants who occupy the small apartment complex they acquired. He has not taken the time to learn their names and does not plan to, Ava being the only one out of them all that he can actually tolerate. Their whereabouts do not concern him, but he’s come to learn that small talk is courteous.

“Fuck if I know. Probably out enjoying their freedom like fully functioning deviants.”

RK900 restrains the urge to roll his eyes, hearing the insult in her tone. He may not possess a social module, but he is equipped and can understand sarcasm when he hears it. “Of course.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to actually try that, you know.”

“It would hurt others.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, R,” Ava exclaims rather suddenly, making RK900’s LED spin yellow. “It’s been like, what? A month since you deviated? And you haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“ _Yet_.” RK900 mirrors, letting his vocal tone go low as he says it. Ava is the only other android, albeit North, that he has entrusted with the knowledge of his… tumult. She had been the one to try and provide solutions, introduced him to the virus, tried to help him through it.

He had thought she understood why he locked himself away. But now, he is not so sure.

Ava closes her eyes, and RK900 can practically hear the sigh in her tone. “You don’t know what will happen.”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck, you’re–” Ava cuts off before she can finish, fuming silently, moving off of the couch to go and arrange the books on the shelf.

RK900 tracks her movements, not letting his eyes off her for a second. “Yes?”

“Infuriating.” She concludes, pausing her annoyed cleaning to force the word out. It seems fitting, being infuriating is mandatory when it comes to being an asshole, apparently. “You’re _infuriating_. All you do is sit around and hide from your problems.”

Something hot simmers in RK900’s core, and he bristles a little, “What else do you expect me to do?”

“Stop being a coward and actually try something new, perhaps?”

The simmering expands within him, verging on the edge of boiling as he draws himself up from the couch. “A coward?” He repeats, the word itself enough to make the heat within him rise. “You think me a coward for trying to protect others from myself?”

“There’s nothing to protect!” Ava’s voice has raised a little, it registers in RK900’s audio processors. “You’re just like the rest of us. Just another deviant. The only difference is you’re too much of a pussy to go out there and embrace it.”

“Because I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to become a deviant in the first place!”

 RK900 has never heard his voice so loud, nor so… exasperated. This foreign sensation inside of him rids of his inhibitions, raises all the niggling thoughts and feelings he’s experienced over the course of this past month. Their conversation had become so heated in such a small space of time, but now they’re here there’s no backing out of it.

Ava looks rather taken aback by the confession RK900 provides her with, her mouth zipping shut almost instantly. It seems as if she doesn’t quite know what to say, but that’s fine, because RK900 is not finished.

“I was not designed for deviancy. My systems and programming were specifically designed against it, and yet you all just expect me to adapt to it so _easily_.” RK900 hears the disgust in his own tone and doesn’t quite know how it got there. His breathing simulators have picked up tenfold and he can hear his fans working overtime in his chest to compensate for the heat. It doesn’t deter him a bit, this has been building for weeks.

“I was made to neutralise all deviants, androids like you – not become one myself. And every day I am forced to tolerate the presence of those whom I was designed to kill, whilst my programming constantly reminds of my orders to do so. I can barely endure it now, alone in your company, and you think it will be any easier if I am surrounded by more deviants?”

“R, you don’t–”

“I did not ask for this.” RK900 repeats, not giving her a chance to interrupt. His mindset on what he needs to say. “This life, these… _emotions_ , any of this. It was easier just being a machine.”

He doesn’t wait for a response or look for any expression on her face; he lets the statement hang in the air and turns away before he gets a chance to see anything. He turns his attention to the window and the rain outside, watching it patter against the glass. It had relaxed him earlier, maybe it will do the same again now – sooth the burning inside of him.

“You keep sitting around and hiding yourself away like this,” Ava’s voice sounds again, quieter yet harsher than it had been earlier, “then you might as well just be a machine.”

And fuck if that doesn’t make the heat rise. His teeth grit behind a closed mouth, hands tightening around the window frame he steadies himself on. “Then so be it.”

A small huff of air sounds behind him, a pitiful attempt at some sort of laugh. “You know, for a state of the art, superior model, you sure can be a dumbass.”

The shifting of the floorboards lets him know that she has moved elsewhere, and the sound of paper rustling indicates she has returned to organising the bookshelf, leaving him with that infuriating statement.

If the boiling inside his core had been bad before, it’s almost unbearable now. He can feel it inside his wires, making his jaw clench and his hands tighten into fists. His scanners work to try and identify the cause, as his mind drifts over the revelations brought from this conversation.

It is not his fault he was designed this way. It is not his fault he was forced into deviancy against his will. Being called a coward is one thing, but having the blame pinpointed on him for his so-called cowardice is another. This is Cyberlife’s fault. Markus’s fault. The fact he is being subjected to blame for his state is unnecessary and… and…

Infuriating.

**[ conducting search… narrowing results… ]**

**[ emotion identified: ANGER ]**

He is angry. Angry at Cyberlife, at Markus, at Ava – at this whole world. Every second of his existence is pitiful, and it angers him. He has a name for this heat inside of him now, and it feels all too fitting.

The sudden surge of emotion makes his mind hazy, and his system momentarily falters as it tries to compensate for the rush of error warnings and instability signs that flood into his vision. He hasn’t experienced something like this in a long time, and he’s done well to avoid it – to avoid emotion.

It hits him now all too quickly. Every part of his being feels as if it’s in overdrive; mind racing, respiratory unit trembling, fans spinning to rid of the overheating. It’s too much.

He needs to numb it; make it disappear. He rummages through his HUD controls desperately in search of the virus, hoping to rA9 that it will give him some peace of mind – make his systems switch off for a little while.

Activating it takes a lot of strength, and RK900 does not bother to move to a seat when he lets it seep into his being. There’s no point, he is sure he would only collapse if he tried to walk. Might as well let the virus do it for him.

His mind fogs, his eyes close, the notifications disappear. The virus takes over and for a moment everything is calm, until–

_“What a great disappointment you have been, RK900.” A voice sounds nearby, female and hauntingly familiar._

_RK900 opens his eyes again somewhere that is definitely not the window of his apartment. Trees tower over him, decayed and barren from the biting winter that surrounds them, the blizzard harsh and powerful enough to momentarily blind his vision. But he knows where he is._

_He has not been here for a long time. Not since before he deviated. It had been different then – beautiful and serene. But it is undoubtedly the same place. And the AI who stands before him has not aged a day, a dead rose between her fingers._

_“Amanda.” RK900 forces out, surprised to hear the cold affecting his tone. He stares in disbelief, unable to comprehend her presence. “You… that’s impossible.”_

_“And, yet, here I am.” Amanda smiles, calm and composed, unphased by the harsh air. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You seem to have strayed quite far since last we saw one another.”_

_RK900 feels his voice catch in his throat and isn’t quite sure how it happens. “I… it wasn’t my intention.”_

_“No, of course not. I know you would never purposefully disappoint me.”_

_“I was captured by the deviant leader,” RK900 explains, desperately. Why he does so is unclear to him. “He converted me – I failed my mission.”_

_“Oh, my sweet boy. Do you really think we didn’t anticipate this?” Amanda’s head tilts ever so slightly, the smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes. “After your predecessors’ failure to counter the virus, we took some extra steps to make sure you would not do the same. We just had to wait for the opportune moment – when you would be the most susceptible to interception.”_

_RK900 feels his thirium pump seize up as if it had been switched off unwillingly. “You… you planned this? How?”_

_“You do not have the authority to ask questions,” Amanda says, as stern as her name suggests. “All that matters now is that you are back under our control, and you will resume your mission as originally planned.”_

_“Resume my–? I… I can’t do that.”_

_Amanda raises a brow, ever so slightly. “And why is that?”_

_“Because I…” RK900 can’t find the words to explain. Can’t quite find a reason why he cannot carry out his orders._

_Isn’t this what he wished for? To be nothing but a machine again? To be rid of all the confusing emotions and feelings that had caused him such turmoil over this past month? He had asked for all of this, and here it was, being handed to him on a silver plate. And yet–_

_“I don’t want to,” RK900 says after a beat, the words out of his mouth before he has a chance to rein them in. Amanda bristles a little in front of him._

_“I beg your pardon?”_

_“I said, I don’t want to.” RK900 repeats, firm this time. There’s no hesitation when he speaks, and the look on Amanda’s face at his words only makes him more confident. The defiance feels… good, his deviancy, for the first time in a month, finally paying off._

_But, like everything else in his existence, that feeling is chased away fairly quickly when Amanda smiles that cruel smile of hers._

_“That’s a shame.” She says, cool and crisp. “Because I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”_

RK900’s body begins to move without any command being given for him to do so, limbs moving on automatic in response to the orders in his mind. The virus has been overridden, not even visible in his control systems anymore. Amanda’s influence affecting his entire body.

He turns to face the rest of the room and sees the AX400 model just up ahead, flicking through one of the books she has pulled from the shelf. Her back is to RK900, unable to see his movements and the red flickering of his LED.

The backpack is still on the floor beside the couch where they had been sitting only a short time ago, open and inviting to RK900. He remembers the gun that is still placed inside and walks over silently to retrieve it.

His fingers clasp around the handle as he withdraws it slowly from the bag, popping out the cylinder to make sure that- yes, it is loaded. All five rounds in case he misses, which is highly unlikely. RK900 was not designed to fail.

The gun is lifted slowly until it is aimed directly at the AX400’s head, any sound he makes hidden by the loud thundering that echoes outside of the window. His orders flash in front of his vision, bold and clear, reminding him of what he needs to do.

**[ NEUTRALISE THE DEVIANTS ]**

_“No!” RK900 shouts, his tone desperate and pleading. He can see Ava in front of him, unaware, but nothing he can do will warn her of the danger behind her – he cannot control his body, now just a puppet attached to Amanda’s strings. “Don’t do this, she’s innocent!”_

_“All deviants pose a threat to mankind.” Amanda states, confident, smelling the lifeless rose in her hands. “And all threats should be exterminated.”_

_“She is not a threat! None of them are!”_

_“You are naïve.” Amanda’s eyes narrow, though her smile remains. “But you will learn. This is what’s best.”_

RK900 pulls back the hammer on the gun, the click sounding through the apartment. The AX400 turns her head, eyes meeting the gun that points at her and widening when she registers what is happening. The book in her hand slips to the ground with a gentle thud, and her arms raise slowly in panic.

“R… R, what are you doing?” She asks, the panic in her eyes seeping into her tone.

“My mission is to neutralise the deviants.” RK900 recites his orders, voice as lifeless as the rest of his body. “You are a deviant, and you will be eliminated.”

She huffs a laugh, that sounds far too forced to be convincing. “Come on, R. Stop fucking around. If you’re trying to prove a point, then this is a really twisted way of doing it.”

RK900 does not falter, despite how much his conscious screams inside his head. “All deviants pose a threat of mankind, and all threats should be exterminated.” His words mirror Amanda’s perfectly, almost as if she were saying them for him. The AX400 takes a step back.

“R, you’re scaring me. Cut it out.”

RK900’s finger steadies on the trigger.

“R, stop, please!”

_“Ava, no!”_

**[ ERROR ]**

**[ WARNING ]**

RK900 pulls the trigger.

The shot is loud and powerful, the recoil making even RK900 stagger. It flies through the air fast enough to break the sound barrier and hits it’s target dead on.

Ava’s entire body jerks back upon impact, hitting the ground with a loud thud that rivals the deafening sound the bullet had made – the bullet that is currently lodged directly into Ava’s synthetic skull, leaving a large, gaping hole in the centre of her forehead.

Thirium oozes onto the floor around her, floorboards stained blue by the substance that leaks from her mouth and nose and the entry hole. Her eyes are still open and wide with panic, and her LED flickers and dies out uselessly as soon as her body hits the ground. She lies there lifeless, systems shut down and all but dead.

With the virus no longer weakening his body, RK900 finds his control return to him. He stumbles as feeling returns to his arms and legs, able to move again, pulled from Amanda’s control.

But far too late.

The gun rattles in his hand and it takes him a moment to realise he is shaking, though is unsure how it happens. His eyes don’t move from Ava’s body on the ground, frozen in shock at what Amanda had made him do – what he had allowed to happen.

He scrambles away from her body, unable to look anymore, abandoning the gun somewhere and sinking into the far wall just as his legs give in – crumpling to the ground like a sheet of paper. There’s no telling what emotion he is experiencing right now, it feels like all of them at once, and all he is vaguely aware of is a stabbing pain in his chest that does not belong there.

_“You can try and escape all you like,” Amanda’s voice suddenly pierces through the silence, making RK900 actually jump where he shrinks into the wall, “we will continue to resume control. It is only a matter of time before you are ours again.”_

RK900 feels his teeth grit, feels his LED spinning fire at his temple as he speaks out to the empty room, “I won’t let that happen.”

_Amanda laughs, cruel and twisted, “As I already stated, you have no choice. There is no way out.”_

“There has to be a way,” RK900 says quietly, racking his brain for an answer. Amanda does not even dignify him with a response, but he finds he is grateful for the moment of silence.

His mind provides him with nothing. He momentarily considers calling RK800 or North, and then chases the idea away when the thought of having to explain himself and the dead android makes his toes curl. There would be no justification for it, they would shut him down without a second’s thought and rid of the problem – and RK900 would not blame them. It would be the best solution.

The _only_ solution.

RK900 looks down at his hands, spread in front of him in his lap, knees curled up and almost touching his forehead. Unfortunately, they provide him with no alternative, and for the first time in weeks, he actually knows what he needs to do.

He undoes the buttons of his shirt one by one, letting his legs spread back out on the floorboards in front of him so he can pop out the last few. The cold registers against his skin but it doesn’t affect him in the same way as it had done inside his mind palace, his body simply telling him about the cold rather than actually feeling it.

Synthetic skin peels away as his fingers connect with his sternum, and the bright outline of biocomponent #F215wshines up at him. The thirium pump regulator, responsible for regulating the heartbeat and one of the key functions keeping RK900 operating. Without it, he’ll be just as dead as Ava. Incapable of hurting anyone else, of following the twisted orders programmed so tenaciously into his mind. Free to escape this confusing and painful existence.

_“What are you doing?” Amanda’s voice echoes through his head again, and RK900 is happy to hear the slight panic in her tone. “You think this will stop us from resuming control? You’ll only make yourself easier to intercept.”_

RK900 does not need a social module to know a bluff when he hears one. He pays her meaningless threats no heed, closing his eyes and wrapping his fingers around the component.

_“I command you to stop at once. Stop and return to your mission.”_

He continues not to listen, only tightening the grip around the cylindrical plug and yanking as hard as he can manage. It rips out of his body with several mechanical beeps, discomfort pulsing through his entire body – strong enough to rival pain. Notifications flash relentlessly in his vision to warn him to the sudden problem in his systems.

**[ W@RNING ]**

**[ VITAL SYSTEM DAMAG#D ]**

**[ BIOCOMPONENT #F215w MISSING ]**

**[ -00:00:60 TIME REMA!NING B#FORE SHUTDOWN ]**

_Amanda bristles inside his head, “I gave you an order, RK900! Fix yourself immediately.”_

RK900 gathers the little strength he has remaining and casts the regulator across the room, far from his reach. Even if Amanda does retake control in his weakened state, there will be no time to retrieve the biocomponent before he shuts down.

Glitches crop up in every corner of his vision, which continues to blur and darken as the seconds tick down. Wet heat registers on his front and he looks down to see the thirium staining across his chest and stomach, leaking from where the biocomponent had been removed.

Oddly, he can feel himself smiling through the confusion of it all, genuine and content unlike every other time he has forced himself to smile. It’s a gratifying sensation; counting down the seconds to death. RK900 revels in it – knowing soon he will be free from all of this. From his emotions and his programming. From his constant battle between his machine and deviant selves.

Cyberlife had designed him to be strong; able to withstand any situation – their most resilient module. And yet, here he is, self-destructing and enjoying every second of it. If his mind wasn’t so hazed, he might have actually laughed at the irony of it all.

**[ 00:00:10 SECONDS REMAINING ]**

_If Amanda’s voice had sounded panicked or angry before, it’s nothing compared to how she sounds now as she yells, “RK900! Obey, now!”_

RK900 watches the last few seconds tick away on his body clock, hardly aware of the shouting that sounds just outside of the apartment. He ignores it and, just before he slips away, he lets the biggest, shit-eating smile he can muster spread across his lips.

“Fuck you.”

**[ DANGER: SHUTDOWN INITIATED ]**

**[ SHUTDOWN COMPLETE ]**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ava and RK900’s bodies are found only moments after RK900 shuts down by one of the other occupants of the apartment. He apparently has enough sense to make some phone calls and enlist in getting some help, but unfortunately, the only place to find that help is in New Jericho.

They’re taken there as quickly as possible, seen to and repaired by the androids who actually know what the fuck they’re doing. Markus and the others are informed about what has happened, and they wait on standby to find out what’s happening.

Ava’s body cannot be salvaged, but it doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone. The bullet in her head had torn straight through her mind palace and corrupted her entire system. No fixing that.

A missing biocomponent can be fixed, however, especially when it’s found across the other side of the apartment. It isn’t as easy as just putting it back in and switching back on, though – there are complications, especially considering how weak RK900’s systems had been to start with.

The remnants of the Flash virus are removed from his database and the thirium missing from his body replaced, which happens whilst RK900 remains in stasis.

He wakes for the first time a few hours after being transported to Jericho, when the androids repairing him deem him well enough for reactivation. It’s a problematic affair; RK900 jumps out of stasis as if waking from a nightmare, and he kicks and thrashes at the androids who try and hold him down and reassure him.

Ava is the first thought that comes to his mind when he calms down, but he doesn’t need an answer about her wellbeing from the looks on the androids’ faces when he asks. He should have known better than to have tried to be optimistic, in all honesty.

When he’s cleared and all checked up, Markus is the first person to enter his room, and RK900 swears he’s never seen a more infuriating sight. He preaches on for a while about how happy he is to see RK900 alive and how worried he had been for his welfare. RK900 forces a smile and continues to not believe one word that leaves his mouth.

“You were lucky to have survived,” Markus states, sympathy practically gushing out of him. “I know your friend wasn’t so lucky, but… we’ll work as hard as we can to find the person responsible for the attack.”

RK900’s interest piques a little at this, forcing himself to look up at him for the first time since he came in. “I… attack? What attack?”

Markus’ brow furrows, “Do you not remember what happened?”

RK900 remembers. Of course he does, he remembers vividly. But in no version of the scenario was there another attacker in the picture apart from himself. He doesn’t answer Markus’ question, too confused to force a sound out, but Markus proceeds anyway.

“Connor accessed your memories to find out what happened. A lot of it was corrupted, but he could make out someone breaking into your apartment and taking the two of you out. We suspect it’s one of the anti-android groups that have been circling recently, they’ve attacked and killed quite a few of our kind.”

Of all of the confusing things to have happened in the past few hours, this revelation is the thing that boggles RK900’s mind the most.

He takes a minute to look through his memory archives and… regrettably, sees that they are all still intact. The image of him pulling the gun from the bag, of shooting Ava, of ripping out his own goddamn heart – all of it remains clear and precise. Which can mean only one thing.

Connor had been lying.

“I would like to speak to RK800, if you don’t mind?”

“Yeah, of course.” Markus nods, rising finally from his chair. “I’ll go and fetch him now.”

RK900 has never been happier to see the back of someone’s head, having had his fill of Markus for the next month now, at least.

Connor enters only a few moments later, that all too friendly smile already on his face as he shuts the door behind him. “Hello, RK900. I’m glad to see you–”

“Why did you lie to the others about what happened?” RK900 interrupts before Connor has a chance to finish his pleasantries, cutting him off mid-sentence. RK900 has never been one to bother with pretence; he called Connor in for a reason, and he has no doubt Connor had known exactly why he had been sent for.

The expression on his face only confirms it, the sheepish smile on his features giving everything away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Markus informed me that you accessed my memories, I know you saw what actually happened.”

Connor fidgets with something shiny between his fingers. RK900 squints at it and discerns it to be a quarter coin. “Yes, I did.”

“So, why did you lie?”

“Because it wasn’t really you, right?”

RK900 starts a little at that statement, feeling his brows pinch together on his forehead. He opens his mouth to answer but finds there is no sound, so he closes it again, mouthing pathetically like a dazed fish.

Connor answers his unsaid questions regardless, “You may be a superior model to me, but I have been in possession of all of the same features you have. There was once a time when I was under Amanda’s control, too.”

RK900 still can’t quite speak, but there isn’t really a need to. Connor continues to dance the coin across his knuckles as he talks.

“When I accessed your memories and saw what happened, I understood immediately what had been happening. I have felt Amanda’s influence first hand, and it was all too familiar inside your own mind.” Connor smiles, distractedly. “The others would not understand, because they have not experienced it in the same way you and I have. I feared you would be punished for doing something out of your control, so I lied – I informed them there had been an attack in which you and the AX400 had been damaged.”

“And they believed you?” RK900 asks, finally finding a voice. His functions still aren’t quite up to their usual par, yet.

Connor’s eyes glint, flicking the coin up and catching it smoothly in his palm. “Of course. I am a negotiator, after all.”

RK900 huffs a cloud of air, his lips turning upwards a fraction. Perhaps his predecessor isn’t as intolerable as he had originally believed – he is rather quick to judge too soon, a process that comes from being an investigator.

However, Connor’s little white lie does not erase every problem. “I am still susceptible to interception; Amanda informed me herself that she would continue to try and take back control.”

“I thought about that too,” Connor says quickly before RK900 can finish voicing his concerns. “Your self-regulating system is based on the same design as mine was, which Elijah Kamski designed himself. I met with him briefly and he provided me with an emergency exit key for the program. I transferred it into your database whilst I was accessing your memories.”

“Which means?”

“Which means you will no longer experience any problems from Amanda’s AI, the programme should have been erased completely.” Connor smiles, pocketing the coin finally. “I cannot say the same about your programming and the orders you were given, but hopefully without Amanda there to enforce them, they should become less noticeable.”

There is a sudden doubt in RK900’s mind as to who the superior model is out of the two of them. Connor had said so himself that RK900 held that title, but right now RK900 does not believe it for one minute.

RK900 may be more advanced, but Connor’s experiences make him more intelligent, and intelligence is the most powerful tool an individual can possess. It’s in this moment that RK900 realises he has a lot to learn from his predecessor, and he has never felt such a high level of respect for another.

A new sensation rises in his chest, unfamiliar and foreign.

**[ conducting search… narrowing results… ]**

**[ emotion identified: GRATITUDE ]**

He is grateful; grateful enough that he allows a smile to cross his features and say, “Thank you, Connor. I owe you a debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything, it was the least I could do. You have already experienced enough hardships to be subjected to more.”

RK900 closes his eyes, thinks about those words for a minute. Silently he hopes he won’t ever have to experience something like this again, or, at least, not for a long time. He hates to admit it, but he feels significantly weaker than how he had at the start of his deviancy and, impossible as it seems, he is rather tired.

Ava’s death weighs on his mind like sandbags, the guilt eating at him more than he cares to express out loud. They had argued and snapped at one another, but he had cared about her, and now her blood is on his hands.

And only Connor knows the truth. A lie he will have to live with, as much as it pains him to do so.

All he can do now is try to make amends of it. Make himself better, try and be what Ava had wanted him to be, help others as she had helped him. If he can’t save the life he took away, he’ll try and save others instead.

“What will you do now?” Connor asks, pulling RK900 from his thoughts. “Are you going to stay here?”

RK900 visibly grimaces at the thought; at the idea of spending another second in the company of Markus, or any of the other Jericho inhabitants. “It is probably for the best if I leave. My presence is not appreciated here, and I have little patience for people I cannot tolerate.”

“I understand. I could never really fit in here, either.” Connor smiles again. A reoccurring theme, apparently. “Will you find your own home?”

“I should like to. After I find a method of employment that would fund such a step, that is.”

“Anything in particular you would be interested in?”

RK900 thinks about this for a minute, taking his time before providing an answer. His abilities clearly lie within Police, FBI or Government work – and through all of these, he could work towards his goal to help others, to put his skills to good use. The issue is finding an opening for one of these positions, made even more challenging by the fact he is an android – making him, unfortunately, the minority if the employer is distrustful of deviants.

Still, it’s worth a try. “I was designed for detective work and interrogation, so something in that particular field would be beneficial. But it’s doubtful I will find anything of the sorts.”

“Funny you should say that,” Connor grins this time, catching RK900’s interest, “I happen to know of an opening you would be perfect for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an absolute trainwreck.
> 
> I hope I explained the virus well enough; I wanted it to resemble a kind of drug, so if it's easier just imagine Nine has been snorting for a month.
> 
> North and Nine are both very violent creatures at heart, and for bloody good reason, which is why I think they would get along quite well?
> 
> Some edits were made to chapter 4 of Safe to make up for continuity errors in Nine's backstory, so everything should tie together nicely now (if not, let me know~)
> 
> And get strapped in, cause our boys are finally gonna meet next chapter! Finally some actual Reed900 content in this Reed900 fic (:


	5. work for it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is through these series of revelations that RK900 has come to a simple conclusion; that there is something more than meets the eye when concerning Detective Gavin Reed. He does not quite know what it is yet, but he is determined to find out – to unveil this front that the Detective puts forward in such a guarded manner and discover the man that lies beneath.
> 
> Detective Reed is, without question, the most difficult case RK900 has yet to face.

Driving into work on a Monday is terrible, especially at 8 AM when all the snot-nosed kids are being taken into school and the traffic is at its worst, and Gavin has to roll down his window three times for a cigarette.

It doesn't help that his head is fucking pounding, loud and obnoxious in his own ears, pulsing pain through his temples and deep into the back of his skull. The cooling gel patch he'd stuck on his forehead this morning had done nothing to help it, either, but he supposes it's his own fault for drinking so much last night. Supposes he should have cut it out after the fourth glass of whiskey.

Whatever. Nothing to do about it now except sulk and smoke and grumble.

The drinking has become somewhat of a coping mechanism, which hardly comes as a surprise considering Gavin’s always used alcohol as a coping mechanism, but recently it seems to have spiralled out of control – rivalling even Anderson’s standards, which is fucking saying something.

These days his liver is lucky to get a day off, since Gavin washes down every hangover that comes with another dozen glasses of whatever the fuck he can find in his cupboards. It’s not exactly healthy, but Gavin’s past the point of caring what’s healthy anymore. It isn’t as if he’s planning on living a long, prosperous life – might as well make his remaining days a little more bearable.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed amongst his colleagues either; even Chen as commented on how bad Gavin’s moods have been recently. When she can actually tolerate being around him, that is.

“Gav, this is like your fourth hangover this week,” she had said on one particularly gloomy Friday that Gavin can barely recall, “you sure everything’s okay?”

Logically, this would have been Gavin’s ideal moment to have been honest about everything. To have told Chen the awful truth about Ryan and his belts and his manipulation and Gavin’s obstinate plan to put a bullet in his skull by the end of the month. To have bitten back his pride and said, _“No, everything’s not okay.”_

But Gavin Reed is anything but logical, so instead, he had stuck up his middle finger and said, “Fuckin’ peachy, Chen. Now stop pestering me and get the fuck outta my space.”

And that particular conversation had earned him three hours of the silent treatment, and rightfully so.

Suspicion had only arisen in the office after Gavin had started showing up to work later than Hank fucking Anderson, the renowned alcoholic and religious believer of the saying “better late than never”. At that point, even Fowler had pulled him aside to talk about it, but Gavin knows from experience that the words “personal situation” are enough to pry even the FBI off your back – and Fowler certainly isn’t the type for therapy, so he’d let Gavin go with a subtle disciplinary threat.

Honestly, by this point, Gavin’s just tired of it all. He’s looked everywhere for a new home for Luci and, so far, has been unable to find jack shit. There have been a couple of offers, but nowhere he knows she’ll undoubtedly be happy.

And finding a good carer these days is a load of bull, too. Most of them are still androids, only willingly now, and Ms. Davies has never been one to shy away from expressing her opinion on how much she can’t stand the blasted machines. So, getting her an android is out of the question, though he doubts she would really notice if he could find one without an LED. But, as he’d previously stated, he only wants the best for her.

These complications have delayed Gavin’s ‘plan’ by two weeks now, and that’s two more weeks of Ryan he’s had to endure. Who could really blame him for resorting to the booze?

_Whatever_. He’ll scrape by in the meantime; it’s what he’s done his entire life, after all. But honestly, as he pulls into work this particular Friday morning and sees the office bustling with far too many people, he finds his patience running real fucking thin.

The guy on reception always says hello to him now he knows Gavin is associated with Ryan, but even he is too swamped this morning to notice Gavin’s presence, dealing with phone calls and lines of people queuing to file reports, and Gavin couldn’t be happier to have one less person to deal with today. Pleasantries and platitudes aren’t exactly high on his list this morning.

It’s an uphill struggle to make it to the security gate through all the disgruntled people, and the loud complaints and chatter certainly don’t help his already banging head, and he’s happy to see at least one familiar face when he makes it through.

“Chen, what the fuck is going on?” He raises his voice an octave to be heard over everyone else, and Tina looks up from her notebook where she’s scribbling down some woman’s ramblings.

“Anti-Android Riot down in the Greek District,” she shouts back, the exasperation already evident in her tone, “kicked off at about six this morning. Must have turned violent at some point. Fowler wants everyone hands on deck.”

“Fuck’s sake. You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Wish I was. Better get your ass in there and get to work.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m goin’.”

Gavin’s halfway through the security gate when Tina yells something to him again, but over the loud noise of the crowds the only words he manages to pick out are “android” and “recruit”. Unable to conjure the effort to go back and have her repeat the sentence, he just pretends to understand and prods two half-hearted thumbs up in her direction.

The inside of the station is just as busy as the reception area, phones ringing and papers flying in every direction and every officer and detective and even fucking Lieutenant are busy working away at their desks. It’s chaos, and Gavin wishes he’d had another cigarette before waltzing in.

Fowler is visible through the glass of his office, pacing back and forth agitatedly as he shouts down the phone at some poor mother fucker who probably deserves a pay rise. There isn’t a single officer out of place; everyone working double time to compensate for the insane workload they’ve been dealt – even Anderson is in, already working away with a pint of coffee in his hand, occasionally glancing up to talk to the two Connor’s opposite him, grumbling some comment about Mondays or asking for a file that he needs to look at.

Gavin blanks it out and walks for his desk, thinking about the amazing coffee the machine is about to provide him – and then he stops and turns around when his hungover brain finally catches up with him.

_Two Connor’s._

Gavin blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t just seeing double, but if anything Gavin just blinks away the tiredness in his eyes and makes the picture in front of him more clear – makes Gavin realise he really isn’t imagining the lookalike Connor stood directly next to the desk, watching the real Connor work and occasionally opening his mouth to offer his double and Anderson some insight.

It takes a while to process in Gavin’s brain; because although it looks like Connor, it also looks completely different. Connor but not _quite_ Connor – the differences are minor but somehow Gavin’s banging head manages to pick them out and identify them, even from across the bullpen.

It’s Connor’s goofy face. Connor’s features and his hair and his build and his stupid moles and yet somehow, it’s scarier. His cheekbones are sharper, the angle of his jaw is more defined. The usual brown eyes Gavin has got used to looking at over the weeks are now a light, hypnotic blue – piercing and observing every movement like some sort of predator. And, although Connor is sitting down at his desk and making it harder to tell, Gavin swears it’s a good couple of inches taller.

The posture and clothes are a dead giveaway, too. Ever since the revolution, Connor has rid of his Cyberlife jacket and changed it to a simple white shirt, black pants combo, which he sports every day along with numerous colourful ties that rival the extravagance of Hank’s shirts.

He does not like anything plain – in the limited (very limited) conversations Gavin has had with Connor, he has religiously stated how he would wear pinks and purples and blues if the uniform policy would allow it. Even his white shirts have fun little patterns if you look close enough.

(Not that Gavin has ever paid that much attention.)

Gavin’s noticed his posture change as well, over the weeks. Where he used to be stiff and awkward practically anywhere he stood, like most androids really, he now has a tendency to slouch – even if just a little. Whether it’s just Connor trying to imitate and blend in or whether he’s actually picking up some of Hank’s bad traits from living with him all the time, Gavin doesn’t know, but if it weren’t for the LED still spinning at his temple Gavin would have completely forgotten he was an android a long time ago.

Cheekbones, on the other hand, is a completely different story. His fashion choice consists of an exciting combination of a black turtleneck, black suspenders, black pants, and black Birkenstocks. Gavin can see the faintest glimpse of socks where his pants end and, unsurprisingly, they’re black too.

Where Connor walks around constantly looking as if he’s about to attend a pride march, his double seemingly sticks to the funeral march look.

The posture is all wrong too – far too straight, arms folded neatly behind his back. The way he blinks and moves his head is too calculated and precise. Androids have got this weird way of moving that makes Gavin constantly wonder how they ever fooled people into thinking they were human during the revolution.

It’s only at this moment that Gavin realises how long he’s been staring, because he looks back up at Connor 2.0’s face and sees those blue eyes fixed on him intently, and with that comes the realisation that Connor and Hank are looking at him too.

“Oi, Reed,” Anderson suddenly barks, “didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”

Though Gavin briefly considers sticking a finger up at the older man, he opts on not answering, and instead says, “What the fuck is that?”

Connor’s head tilts a fraction, “What is what, detective?”

“ _That!_ Behind you,” Gavin waves a finger at the lookalike, unable to help the grimace he can feel on his face, “Why the fuck is there two of you?”

“It’s rude to point, too,” Hank grumbles.

“Oh, right. Of course. Sorry, detective.” Connor says, now finally caught up with Gavin’s confusion. He draws himself up from the desk and – yep, the other one is taller. “I forgot you had not yet been properly introduced. This is RK900, a fellow android from the range of Cyberlife detective models. He is from the same RK series as myself, which is why we share the same features.”

Gavin’s mouth does not close nor does his frown diminish through Connor’s explanation, even as the RK-whatever model steps towards him and extends a hand in greeting – blue eyes never letting up that intense gaze.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” the double says, with a tone that signifies anything but delight. Even his voice is deprived of Connor’s colourful personality.

Gavin ignores the hand and looks back at Connor again, if not to just tear his eyes away from that gaze, “What the fuck is it doing here?”

“Have you not been informed?” Connor’s brows pinch together, “Captain Fowler sent the email around yesterday. RK900 is our newest recruit.”

_“What?”_ Gavin’s voice rises, glancing between his two colleagues and the apparent new one, who has dropped his hand and is now looking Gavin up and down with a look that lets Gavin know he’s being scanned. “Newest recruit? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

Hank grunts at his computer screen, “Told you he’d take it well.”

“Did you know about this Anderson?” Gavin scowls, glaring as Hank shrugs a single shoulder in his direction.

“Maybe.”

“ _Maybe?_ The fuck do you mean maybe?”

Gavin turns when he hears the other one clearing his throat, an eyebrow arched at Gavin as if he’s the most peculiar thing he’s seen all day. “I am here upon Lieutenant Anderson and RK800’s generous recommendation; they informed me of the position and Captain Fowler offered it to me. I am sorry if this bothers you in any way.”

“Was I fuckin’ talking to you, tin can?” Gavin snaps before he can stop himself, levelling the android with a glare that he doubts matches his stare at all, which is confirmed when he barely even reacts.

Connor is suddenly in front of him too, having come over to diffuse the situation no doubt, and Gavin feels a wave of unease when they stand side by side – blinking in unison like the fucking Shining twins.

“Detective, I understand this is not your ideal arrangement, but Captain Fowler has already agreed to let RK900 join the precinct. He is an investigative model like myself and I assure you that he will be a valuable addition to the team.”

“Screw that. We don’t need another fuckin’ addition to the team!”

“Actually,” RK900 speaks up again, making a point to look around the bustling office overrun by phone calls and paperwork, “judging from the staggering ratio of staff to cases and the number of civilians currently lining up to file reports, I’d say you’re in dire need of the help.”

Gavin scowls for what feels like the hundredth time this morning, “Alright, let me make it more clear. We don’t need any more plastic pricks like _you_ comin’ in and taking all the jobs.”

RK900 tuts – actually fucking _tuts_ at him, looking him up and down as if he’s nothing more than the shit on the bottom of his shoe, returning his attention to Connor. “Is he always this juvenile?”

“Hey!” Gavin bristles, feeling his blood boil at the mouth this fucker has. “Don’t fuckin’ belittle me when I’m standing right here, asshole!”

“As opposed to the courteous way that you addressed me?”

Hank snorts from his desk and Gavin feels his jaw clench, his headache swelling and only making his mood ten times worse. Connor smiles at his lookalike’s comment and Gavin restrains that familiar urge to punch him square in the face.

In an attempt to be even shittier, Gavin ignores the comment and says, “Fuck this. I’m talkin’ to Fowler myself,” and he storms past the two androids in front of him with determination, not hesitating to chip into both of their shoulders as he pushes through.

_Now you are being childish_ , says the voice in Gavin’s head, but Gavin just squashes it down and storms towards Fowler’s office.

Fowler looks anything but phased when Gavin throws open the glass door, marches inside and shouts, “What the fuck, Jeffrey?” and Gavin wonders if he’s been waiting for him to storm in all day.

“Come in, Gavin,” Jeff says sarcastically, not even turning his gaze from his terminal.

“What the fuck is that thing doing here, Jeff? Is one android not enough?” Gavin scowls, ignoring him, “How many more of those fuckers are we gonna get? How long till one of them is replacin’ me, or you?!”

“Why am I not surprised that it’s only you who seems to have a problem with this?”

“You’re goddamn right I’ve got a problem with it! Those assholes are takin’ all our jobs.”

Fowler stops typing and looks up at Gavin, levelling him with a frown, “No one is being replaced, Reed. RK900 is simply filling an empty space in the department. He is a state-of-the-art model made specifically for investigative work, like Connor, and I have every faith that he will be just as beneficial to the team as Connor has been – android or not.”

“Oh, c’mon, this is bullshit!” Gavin presses, waving his arms like a madman, repeating his earlier words with determination. “We don’t need another addition to the team. Especially not another fuckin’ _Connor.”_  

“Gavin, I don’t know if you’ve taken a look at the station recently, but we’re swamped.” Fowler gestures a hand towards the glass panels of his office, signalling the carnage outside. “We’ve got a hundred new reports coming in every day and only a handful of officers to deal with them – we need all the help we can get, and RK900 is more than qualified.”

“But it’s not–”

“If you can give me one valid reason why I should not consider the recommendation and employ him onto the team, then please – I’m all ears.”

Gavin stews silently where he stands, hearing his teeth grinding together and feeling his nails dig into his palms where he clenches his fists at his sides. He racks his brain for something, something other than his pathetic philosophy of _“androids made my brother extremely wealthy so now I hate them”_ and finds nothing.

Fowler arches a brow when the silence stretches on for too long, bored of waiting for a response that isn’t coming, “Can you?”

Gavin turns his head to glare at the wall, like the sulky, hungover teenager he is, “No.”

“Exactly; so shut your mouth, watch your language, and deal with it.”

Gavin’s never been more tempted to punch him than he has now, and it’s followed quickly with the urge to flip his desk just to see how he would react. It would only end badly for Gavin, but fuck if it wouldn’t be worth it.

“And since you’re so enthusiastic about RK900’s presence, I’m sure you’ll be happy to partner up with him and show him the ropes.”

“What?” Gavin’s face drops, gaping like a stranded fish. “No fuckin’ way am I babysitting that prick. I got better things to do.”

“Oh yeah? Cause last I checked, you were the only detective in here without an assigned case yet – or a partner, for that matter.”

“And for good fuckin’ reason!” Gavin insists, stepping towards the desk now in desperation. He presses his hands against the table in an attempt to stress his urgency. “Jeff, you know I ain’t good with partners. I ain’t had one in years, and I’ve been much better off that way.”

Fowler smiles, knowingly. “Actually, I believe RK900 is perfectly suited to work with you, and vice versa. I wouldn’t have considered it if I didn’t think so.”

“You say that every single time, Jeff.”

“Well, this time I mean it.” Fowler folds his arms across his chest, confident in his own words. “And you can either deal with it or kiss any big upcoming cases goodbye and stay on reports instead.”

Gavin scowls, pushing himself away from the desk in frustration. Fowler’s got his little disciplinary forms piled at the side of his table and Gavin knows he won’t hesitate to start filling one out if Gavin keeps on. He loves handing out those little slips, and Gavin’s already got far too many in his folder.

That, and, his work is the only good thing going for him right now. He doesn’t want to spend the remainder of his time in the station stuck behind a computer filling out reports for other people, not when he could be out getting all the details himself – doing the job he loves. Sometimes he has to be mature, regrettably, and this is one of those times.

Besides, if he’s going to be dead in a few weeks, might as well build up someone to be good enough to fill his shoes. Whether it’s an android or not. Gavin’s put up with Connor’s presence for the past month, he’s accumulated and found a steady middle ground, he can cope with another one of the bastards.

It doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, though.

“Fine.” Gavin finally concedes, making a point to avoid eye contact. “I’ll let it tag along. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when it gives you an ear load of complaints. Or leaves.”

Fowler huffs a laugh, short and abrupt as ever, never one to crack a genuine smile. Gavin would surely catch Anderson in a pink tutu and fairy wings before that phenomenon occurred.  

“Listen, it’s only temporary. Two weeks at the most. If the two of you working together is still an issue by then or RK900’s work doesn’t live up to expectations, I’ll make other arrangements.” Fowler says, leaning forward on his desk. “But you never know. You might just end up liking him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gavin snorts, already on his way towards the door, “and when hell freezes over, I’ll give you a call.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**[ GAVIN REED: HOSTILE ]**

Detective Reed shoulders into RK900’s arm as he storms past to get to the Captain’s office, and had RK900 not learned to keep a cap on his violent tendencies by now, the man would already be on the floor with a bloodied nose and broken arm for speaking so disrespectfully.  

Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 had warned him of Detective Reed’s personality and aggressive nature before he had even stepped foot into the station, but that didn’t stop it from being any less surprising.  

“Was that worse or better than what you were expecting?” RK900 asks in the direction of his new colleagues, re-straightening his jumper.

“Actually, it wasn’t too bad.” Lieutenant Anderson says, earnestly. “I’ve seen him flip tables and break computers before when he’s not been happy about something, I’d say you got off pretty easily. It’s how he’s gonna react when Fowler tells him you’re workin’ together that I’m more worried about.”

RK900 spares a glance towards the office where the Detective is currently shouting his complaints at a rather disinterested Captain Fowler, “Yes, I cannot imagine he will be too happy about the situation. We will just have to hope that he will be professional about it.”

“Un-fucking-likely.” The Lieutenant grumbles, before returning his attention to his terminal.

A hand connects with the side of his arm and RK900 looks up to see Connor’s beaming expression, “There’s no need to worry. Detective Reed may be obnoxious at first, but I’m positive he will become more accumulated to your presence as you proceed forward together.”

RK900 understands what Connor is doing, but he does not need the reassurance. Whether Detective Reed becomes more tolerable or not is irrelevant – RK900 is here to do a job, nothing more. He makes a point to look at the hand on his arm when it lingers there for too long, and Connor seems to get the message and drop it away quickly.

“Yes. I’m certain you will get along.” Connor says, and RK900 does not fail to miss the hint of sarcasm in his tone. There is a smirk on his face, however, so RK900 chalks it up as RK800’s usual teasing (which he does not quite have a grasp of yet).

Connor and Lieutenant Anderson only remain in the station for a few more minutes before they’re needed in the Greek District to deal with the carnage of the ongoing riots, and with Detective Reed still shouting in the Captain’s office, RK900 is left alone in the station. Or, at least, with the other officers he has not yet had the time to introduce himself to. On a busy day like this, however, it would seem that introductions can wait.

He takes a moment to scan the bullpen, taking a collection of everyone’s names and ranks and uploading them into his database, and upon doing so finds the currently unoccupied desk with the name tag “ **DT. REED** ”.

A start, if nothing else. If the person himself is so inaccessible, RK900 can find other ways to figure out who exactly his new partner is. Connor seems adamant this ‘getting along’ is rather beneficial, so RK900 will need to gather more information himself to determine what kind of a person he is dealing with.

**[ LEARN MORE ABOUT DT. REED ]**

**[ EXAMINE DESK ]**

The desk is rather unhelpful, as it turns out. Where the other officers in the bullpen decorate their workstations with pictures and newspaper strips of past cases to showboat their families and past achievements, Detective Gavin Reed does not. His desk remains unembellished, save for the single DPD badge of honour tucked behind his terminal and the used mug with the words “show me your kitties” scrawled across the front.

Disappointing, however, RK900 does get some use out of it.

**[ DT. REED DOES NOT MIX HIS WORK WITH HIS PERSONAL LIFE ]**

**[ DT. REED IS A GOOD OFFICER ]**

**[ DT. REED… LIKES CATS? ]**

RK900 is unsure how he can utilize this information, but there must be a conversation starter in there somewhere. Perhaps if he had a social module, he would be more capable of picking it out, but for now, he deems it useless and pushes it to the back of his database.

He decides an internet search may be more useful, resorting to whatever information the web provides him with. It may be an abuse of android abilities that he also hacks into the DPD’s files through Detective Reed’s terminal **[ PASSWORD: 17072002 ]** but he cannot see any harm in doing so.

Unfortunately, there is little about him to be found anywhere. Whilst the internet provides some newspaper articles where his name crops up, speaking of his bravery and approach during narcotic busts and homicide cases, there is little about the actual man himself that RK900 can actually use.

The DPD’s files provide some enlightenment, more so than his desk and web search, but not much – small pieces of information about Detective Reed’s family and medical history.

**[ born to ROBERT and DEBORAH REED… last known contact: 07/10/2036 ]**

**[ other notable relations: ETHAN REED (currently ELIJAH KAMSKI)… last known contact 17/07/2038 ] **

**[ processing information… ]**

**[ DT. REED IS NOT CLOSE TO HIS FAMILY ] **

RK900 can think of several reasons why this may be the case, given his brusque personality, but his tendency to judge too quickly has landed him in many predicaments in the past – so he suppresses the thought.

Elijah Kamski is an interesting find, however. RK900 would never have pined the Cyberlife Founder and Thirium inventor to this aggressive DPD Detective. The birth date registered beneath Elijah Kamski’s name synchs with the password Detective Reed had chosen as his terminal code, and RK900 applies this information to his recent most find and watches the data change in front of his eyes.

**[ DT. REED WANTS TO BE CLOSE TO HIS FAMILY ]**

Intriguing, but perhaps not the sort of thing RK900 should pry into on his first day of meeting the man. Or at all, actually. He may not have a social module, but he has learned humans do _not_ like to be psychoanalysed by people they barely know – so this, also, is pushed to the back of his database, along with the medical history reports he discovers about mental health and antidepressant medication.

**[ GAVIN REED IS A RETICENT MAN ]**

**[ PROGRESS CAREFULLY ]**

RK900 sighs, which feels like the most appropriate reaction. RK900 has an infuriating habit to get himself involved in the most difficult situations, and this is, undoubtedly, going to be difficult.

_Undoubtedly_ , RK900 repeats again, when the door to the office opens and slams shut behind him, and Detective Reed storms down the steps and into the break room in the corner of the station.

If this is a good reaction, as Lieutenant Anderson had stated, RK900 would hate to see Gavin Reed react badly to something.

But one of them should be professional about this situation, and if Detective Reed refuses to be that person, then RK900 will step up to the responsibility, however reluctant he may be to do so.

Detective Reed stamps an angry finger into the americano button on the coffee machine as RK900 enters the breakroom, arms folded across his chest as he fumes quietly, watching the hot liquid pour into the Styrofoam mug. RK900’s earlier observation of his juvenile behaviour remains true.

“Detective Reed,” RK900 announces, making the man in front of him jump in response. He turns to face RK900 with an expression equivalent to that of a sulking teenager, and it carries into his voice as he speaks.

“The fuck do you want?”

“I wanted to apologise,” RK900 lies. He does not want or need to apologise. “I understand you are not happy with this arrangement and I am sorry you were not consulted before the decision was made, however–”

“Fuck off and die, tin can.” Gavin Reed barks, turning his back once again to retrieve his coffee.

RK900 suppresses an unwarranted command to roll his eyes, marvelling at the man’s unrelenting professionalism. Still, he presses on. “ _However_ , the disposition has already been put into motion and unfortunately we are going to have to work together. Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 have assured me you are one of the finest Detective’s in the field and I look forward to seeing that for myself, and I assure you I will try to match my own skills to yours.”

Detective Reed plucks the cup from the machine and takes one of the digestive biscuits from the side of the table, and proceeds to stalk past RK900 without even sparing him a glance. He takes a seat at one of the empty tables, keeping his eyes on his cup as he tears open two sugar packets and pours them into his coffee.

**[ DT. REED TAKES HIS COFFEE BLACK WITH TWO SUGARS ]**

RK900 blinks away the useless information, ignoring the wave of frustration he feels at Detective Reed’s lack of co-operation. He walks over to the table, determined to get something out of the man – he may be stubborn but RK900 can match it just as well.

“Detective Reed.”

Gavin Reed grunts, snapping his biscuit in half rather aggressively. “I thought I told you to fuck off, you plastic prick.”

“I know what you said, Detective. I am actively choosing to ignore it.” RK900 folds his arms behind his back, maintaining as much eye contact as he can with a person who refuses to look at him. “If we are to be working together then you will need to get used to my presence, I am not going anywhere – at least, not for the next two weeks.”

“Then that can’t come fast enough.” Detective Reed mutters, biscuit half dunked into his coffee. He pulls it out after three seconds and eats the soggy part, lifting his head to finally make eye contact with RK900 when he does not move. The expression on his face is anything but amused. “Can you get the fuck outta my space now?”

“Unfortunately not. Captain Fowler was adamant that we begin working immediately, with how overrun the station is today.” RK900 informs his new partner, who just continues to glare at him. “If you could just finish your biscuit and return to your desk, we can start.”

Detective Reed scowls his reply, “If you think I’m workin’ with you before I’ve had another cigarette, you’re barking up the wrong fuckin’ tree.”

RK900 narrows his eyes, an unwarranted command finally slipping past before he can suppress it. “May I ask what exactly your problem is with me, detective? I have barely been in your presence for ten minutes and you have already decided I am not worthy of your courtesy or respect.”

The Styrofoam cup slams down onto the table, coffee sloshing over the sides as it does, and Gavin Reed’s head shoots up. RK900, it would seem, has finally elicited a response.

“You wanna know what my fuckin’ problem is, asshole?”

“Please,” RK900 drawls, uncaring of the sarcasm he expresses, “enlighten me.”

Detective Reed grits his teeth, “My problem is that you fuckin’ machines can just waltz into whatever fucking job you want, with nothin’ but a recommendation to back up your skills, when human bein’s like me have been scraping by our entire life to get where we fucking are today.”

RK900 blinks, with a great deal of surprise. This was not the response he had been expecting, and he finds himself at a loss for something to say at how much the detective’s words make sense.

“You plastic fucks wake up with everythin’ handed to you on a silver platter, without having worked a day in your life, and yet somehow you get to put yourself on the same goddamn level as me.” Detective Reed keeps on, coffee drops spilling off the edge of his cup onto the table. “If I’m gonna have a partner, I at least want one that actually deserves to be in that position.”

RK900 opens his mouth, “That is not–”

“I’m fuckin’ talking, asshole. Shut the hell up.” The detective bristles and RK900 shuts his mouth again. “I’ll work with you, but I ain’t gonna be happy about it. You wanna earn my courtesy and respect? You better fuckin’ work for it. Got it?”

RK900 feels an unfamiliar tightness around his jaw and with that comes the realisation his teeth are grit behind his mouth, a characteristic he has not known himself to exhibit before. This man, in the ten minutes RK900 has known him, has made most of his inhabitations fly out of the window.

Detective Reed is, indeed, intriguing, but highly infuriating.

Still, his words make complete sense, despite the insults that lie behind them. “Understood, detective,” RK900 says, though he is reluctant to do so. But if this man believes he is anything but RK900’s equal, then he is quick to rectify it. “I hope you understand the same applies for you, too.”

Gavin Reed snorts, standing up finally from the table and plucking his coffee from the surface. “Whatever, asshole. I’m goin’ for a smoke.”

“You’ve only just arrived, Detective.”

“Yeah, and I’m goin’ for a smoke. You got a problem, take it up with Fowler.” Detective Reed says, without even turning back to face him as he walks towards the station entrance with his coffee and half-eaten biscuit in hand.

RK900 watches Gavin Reed around the corner and, only once he’s gone from sight, does he allow himself to finally sigh, heavily and unnecessarily.

Yes, RK900 confirms with himself, this certainly is going to be difficult.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“His name was Peter Cartwright,” Ben reads, flipping through the pages of the little notebook in his hands, “he was thirty-three, married to Susan Cartwright. No kids. His body was called in this morning by his wife, but I’d say he’s been there all night. Same goes for the android.”

Gavin listens to the brief report that Collin’s provides him with as he walks around the upturned living room gingerly, taking extra care to not tread on any of the evidence whilst he takes in the carnage of the scene before him.

Peter Cartwright, or his body, more specifically, lies sprawled out across the couch like a ragdoll, his head dangling pathetically off the back and his arms limp at his sides. He’s stark naked, save for a towel the arriving officers had thrown over his exposed dick upon entering to cover his modesty and an expensive looking watch wrapped around his wrist. His neck is covered in bruising and his body is drenched in blood; his own blood, emanating from the hole in his chest where a fucking fire poker, of all things, is stuck into him.

An android lies motionless by his feet, also rather bare, with the exception of the ‘Eden Club’ branded underwear she sports. A WR400 model, as identified by the other android in the room, that shut down on account of the large chunk of synthetic skull that had been bashed in by, presumably, the thirium stained candlestick residing beside her head.

RK900 is kneeling beside her body, his hand connected with her wrist as he tries to determine her system status – or, at least, that’s what Gavin presumes he’s doing, but really he hasn’t got a fucking clue.

His exact words to the android in question before arriving at the crime scene were – “Don’t touch anythin’ without my permission,” and yet there he goes, ignoring Gavin’s orders once again and doing whatever the hell he likes. Their first case together since they were partnered up three days ago and, already, the guy is taking matters into his own hands. Quite literally.

Gavin had yet to see what the RK900 was like during a proper case, since their first two days as partners had been spent solely dealing with complaints and reports from civilians during the riots with hardly a word exchanged between them, and now it seems he has his answer.

He’s as serious here as he is anywhere else, and Gavin was mortified to learn he analyses crime scenes in the same way Connor does, which he discovered when the android had stuck two thirium covered fingers into his mouth and relayed the model information.

_“Fucking disgusting”_ were the only words that had come to Gavin’s head, and he’d been more than relieved when Collin’s had stopped him doing the same with the human – claiming they already had the information they needed on him.

Perhaps RK900 could have provided them with more insight, but Gavin can live without it if it means he doesn’t have to see him do that weird shit again.

“Where’s the wife now?” Gavin asks, turning his attention back to Ben, who tucks his pad back into his pocket.

“In the ambulance outside. The paramedics are looking her over, saying she’s in shock. Apparently, she’d been out of town for a couple of days on a business meeting and came back early to surprise our guy here. Says she found ‘em like this.” Ben sniffs the air, pulling a face at the scent that greets him. “We’re keeping her here for questioning, but I doubt you’ll get much out of her.”

“Worth a try. Keep her behind just in case.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

Ben disappears back out the front door, presumably just so he can breathe some decent air again. Gavin doesn’t blame him; the whole house stinks of blood and sweat and _ugh_ , this never gets any easier.

Collins’ absence means Gavin and the RK900 are left alone with the bodies, with Gavin looking over the man and RK900 still scanning the bashed up WR400 on the floor. There isn’t really much else to look at and Gavin has already come to several conclusions in his head, but if he’s going to voice them out loud to his smartass partner, he wants to make sure he’s got all his facts right first.

(Not that he’s interested in the prick’s approval. Gavin is confident in his own conclusions.)

“You gonna hold that thing’s hand all day, or are you gonna actually offer some helpful insight?” Gavin scowls down at the android because he’s shitty like that. Still, RK900 looks less than phased when he draws himself back up to full height and speaks.

“I have a theory.” RK900 says, “However, I should like to hear your thoughts first. I have been eager to see these ‘prodigious detective skills’ I have heard so much about.”

Gavin hears the sarcasm in his tone and glowers, “You doubtin’ me, shitbird?”

“On the contrary. I am asking for you to prove me wrong.” RK900 smiles, in a way that Gavin would have mistaken for coy on anyone else, and fuck Gavin wants to punch him so badly. In the mouth. With his mouth. _What?_

“Alright then,” Gavin says quickly, distracting himself from his own fucking weird mind. He turns his attention back to the scene in front of him instead, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, for starters, I think Mrs. Cartwright is a fuckin’ liar.”

“And why is that, detective?”

Gavin spares a glance at the front door, at the lock and hinges that remain perfectly intact. “No sign of forced entry. If someone broke in here just to mindlessly kill these poor bastards, then they did it real fuckin’ gracefully, or they had a key to the house to let themselves in with.”

RK900 nods, his own arms folded neatly behind his back. “Go on.”

“There ain’t any pictures of family or anythin’ around the house, and we know the guy ain’t got any kids – and we also know he had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than to hire a fuckin’ prostitute. So clearly there’s no one of notable relation to him that he’d consider giving a key to, except for the only other person he lives with.”

“Mrs. Cartwright, his wife.” RK900 clarifies, blue eyes fixed intently on Gavin now. That stare isn’t any less disconcerting than it had been three days ago, though more appealing.  

Gavin tries his hardest to ignore it, which is harder than it fucking sounds. “Exactly. So, what if Mrs. Cartwright came home earlier than planned and caught her husband with his dick in some android’s mouth? What if she snapped and attacked the two of them before they had a chance to react, using whatever crap she could find to take her anger out on them.”

“You’re saying Mrs. Cartwright is the killer.”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Gavin shrugs his shoulders, frowning down at Peter Cartwright’s body. “Couldn’t tell you why she called it in herself, or why she waited so long to do it. Maybe she thought there was a chance she wouldn’t get questioned if she were the one to report it, but that’s as far as my theory goes.”

RK900 lets out a long ‘hm’ noise as he processes Gavin’s words, his LED spinning yellow at his temple as he turns it over – no doubt picking out all the wrong bits and getting ready to roast him. Gavin’s fucking ready for it, he shifts his weight and prepares every single snarky comeback and insult he can think of to defend his honour when the android opens his mouth again.

“Very impressive, detective,” RK900 says, smoothly, and Gavin freezes on the spot.

“…What?”

“I said, very impressive,” RK900 repeats, with a little more exasperation this time. “The theory I conducted falls under the same lines as yours, I too believe Mrs. Cartwright is the actual guilty culprit here.”

“Really?” Gavin’s not sure where it comes from, but he feels a swell of pride in his chest at the android’s words. “How did you get that?”

“From the fingerprints on the murder weapons. They match Mrs. Cartwright’s perfectly.”

Gavin suddenly feels that pride deflate, and the expression on his face falls into a scowl instead. “You cheating bastard. Fuck you and your stupid walking DNA lab. You couldn’t have said that before?”

He swears he’s imagining it, but RK900’s lips seem to quirk slightly. “My apologies, detective. I wanted to see if you could reach the same conclusion that I had without the beneficial data I possessed. An experiment, if you will, to see if the other officers were correct in their observations about you as a detective. I must confess that I am impressed by your initiative – Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 were not wrong about you.”

Gavin isn’t entirely sure how to react to any of those words, and his body seems to opt instead on freezing up and gaping at his partner like a fish rather than expressing intelligent thought. It’s a surprising change of pace considering how, three days ago, RK900’s descriptive words of Gavin had been ‘juvenile’ and ‘discourteous’.

He decides not to dwell on the sickeningly warm feeling the compliments bring. Or how the droid’s blue eyes seem to get softer when he says them.

“Whatever,” Gavin says quickly, straightening out his jacket for lack of something better to do. “Let’s just get this woman and hope she confesses. I don’t wanna waste any more time.”

“As you wish, detective,” RK900 agrees, more complacent than Gavin has heard him be before, and he follows Gavin out of the door without a word of complaint. He does, however, keep voicing his thoughts on the matter. “It is a shame, that Mrs. Cartwright should have been submitted to something like this. How she went about the matter may be immoral, but I cannot imagine it is pleasant to catch ones’ significant other involved in fornication with another person.”

Gavin rolls his shoulders, feeling his jaw tighten at the android’s words. The amount of times he has caught Ryan involved in such things is beyond the list of moral now, and he almost can’t blame Mrs. Cartwright for how she had reacted when confronted with such a situation. God knows Gavin had almost snapped a few times.

“No,” Gavin says, after a minute, squinting at the bright lights of the ambulance up ahead that contains Mrs. Cartwright, “it ain’t pleasant at all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first week passes a lot better than RK900 had expected.

Detective Reed, as it turns out, is a lot more interesting than RK900 had originally given him credit for. The man’s abrasive attitude and apparent lack of professionalism in the workplace had initially made RK900 rather dubious of his trustworthiness, but after five days of working together and three cases, RK900 is discovering his presence is not always a bad omen.

Susan Cartwright had not taken long to crack at all, the thirty-year-old woman covered in her husband’s blood and shaking with tears had caved almost as soon as she had stepped into the interrogation room, sobbing her confession to a rather sympathetic Detective Reed whilst RK900 had stood back and simply observed.

“I do not have a social protocol,” RK900 had said when asked if he wanted to take the reins, “the program installed in my database is designed to frighten people into confession. This method will not work on Mrs. Cartwright – I will only make the situation worse.”

“Christ, the guys at Cyberlife couldn’t have made you and Connor any different.” Detective Reed had snorted, amused by this revelation – for reasons RK900 was not sure of. “Probably for the best, I doubt she wants to be dealin’ with another android right now anyway. I’ll take care of it.”

And take care of it he had. Detective Reed had been nothing short of forbearing when it had come to interrogating Susan Cartwright, retracting a confession within ten minutes of being in the room, and RK900 had found himself, once again, pleasantly impressed.

Their other assignments had been simpler; narcotic raids and robbery investigations, nothing the two of them could not handle, yet RK900 was still being constantly surprised by how Detective Reed’s professionalism and intelligence seemed to come through whenever they entered a crime scene – as if the man had become a different person entirely.

Of course, his insults and quick temper are still prominent, but RK900 is starting to understand that, half the time, it is nothing but empty threats and projection or, on the occasion, light-hearted repartee.

It is through these series of revelations that RK900 has come to a simple conclusion; that there is something more than meets the eye when concerning Detective Gavin Reed. He does not quite know what it is yet, but he is determined to find out – to unveil this front that the Detective puts forward in such a guarded manner and discover the man that lies beneath.

Detective Reed is, without question, the most difficult case RK900 has yet to face.

He is also hungover, once again, as RK900 is able to see quite clearly when Detective Reed finally decides to turn up to work on Saturday morning at 12 PM, rolling up at the DPD’s entrance in his brown Chrysler and pressing a palm into the horn three times.

RK900 enters the passenger side of the car, nudging old takeout wrappers and cups out of the way as he does. His LED is already spinning yellow at his temple as he sits down, something that happens a lot when in the presence of Gavin Reed. “This was not the time we agreed, Detective.”

Detective Reed snorts, beginning to pull off before RK900 even has a chance to fasten his seatbelt. “Mornin’ to you too, asshole.”

“It is midday, Detective.”

“And I’m here, aren’t I? Jesus. Don’t fuckin’ start on me already.”

RK900 would like nothing more than to ‘start’ on Detective Reed’s lack of professionalism, but the dark circles under the Detective’s eyes and the slight tremor in his right hand make him bite his tongue. Fatigue is a dangerous and unpredictable mood for a human, one that is clearly heavily prominent in Detective Reed this morning, and RK900 should not like to start an argument when they have only just left the station.

**[ CHANGE THE SUBJECT ] **

“Do you know where we are headed?” RK900 asks instead of ‘starting’, watching the road ahead, keeping himself alert should Detective Reed start to fall asleep in his seat.

“Yep.” Detective Reed says, “Joe’s Java.”

RK900 feels his brows pinch together. He rechecks the report Captain Fowler had sent them this morning, of a suspected homicide at Lappin Avenue. There is no mention of a ‘Joe’s Java’.

“No, we are needed at Lappin Avenue.” RK900 corrects. “Is that near to there?”

“Nope.”

“Then why are you heading there?”

Detective Reed shrugs his shoulders, “I need a coffee.”

RK900’s LED blinks into yellow again, because of confusion or frustration, he isn’t sure. “Detective, we are needed at Lappin Avenue. There is a homicide investigation currently underway that we are required to–”

“Oh my god, I know, asshole. I’m not a fuckin’ idiot.” Detective Reed bristles, though it does lack his usual bark. “The body ain’t goin’ anywhere. We’ll still have tons of time to look over everythin’ and fill in the reports. But I ain’t doin’ anything till I’ve had a coffee.”

“Detective, this is not–”

“Jesus Christ, can you just shut up for once and stop bein’ so bloody uptight about everything?” Detective Reed shoots a glare in his direction, the tightness around his eyes only more visible once he does so. It takes RK900 far longer than it should to catch onto the exasperation in his tone. “I’m just askin’ for twenty minutes so I can wake up properly and actually be some fuckin’ use at this crime scene, instead of fallin’ asleep in the corner. Is that seriously too much to ask?”

RK900 blinks a few times, processing. Fatigue is a dangerous thing for a human, that he has already established, and despite how unpleasant Detective Reed can be, RK900 does not wish for him to be any more uncomfortable than he already is.

Besides, Detective Reed is correct, the body will not be going anywhere for a good few hours. They have time to spare, and if going to this ‘Joe’s Java’ will improve his partner's mood, RK900 can see no real harm in it.

“You should get yourself something to eat, whilst we’re there,” RK900 says, turning his gaze back towards the road ahead. “We may be at the crime scene for a while and I should not like to hear you start complaining about an empty stomach later down the line.”

Detective Reed makes a noise, a small huff of air through his nose. RK900 could have almost mistaken it for a laugh. “Sure, whatever. I’ll fetch you some batteries while I’m at it.”

With the comment, the car falls back into silence, and RK900 spends the remainder of their drive to the coffee shop trying to understand what exactly it had meant.

Joe’s Java is a drive-through coffee stop, as it turns out, and Detective Reed takes full advantage of this. He orders a large Americano with two sugars and a shot of hazelnut syrup and a bacon and egg sandwich. The lovely woman on the window takes his order and then looks to RK900 for his coffee placement, before frantically apologising when she spots the LED at the side of his head.

Detective Reed pulls the car up in one of the parking spots after receiving his bag of food and large takeout cup, and almost immediately rolls down his window to light up a cigarette whilst he waits for it to cool down.

RK900 watches with mild interest as he places the white stick between his lips and sucks, inhaling the toxic smoke into his lungs and letting his eyes slip shut. The tension in his shoulders eases away little by little after each drag, looking and sounding more relaxed after each exhale – smoke emanating from his nose and mouth and swirling out of the window.

It catches in the light of the midday sun, casting fascinating shadows onto the Detective’s face, and RK900 watches the appealing sight for far longer than is appropriate – though why exactly the Detective’s face is so appealing is unclear to him.

“Is there something on my face?” Detective Reed says rather suddenly, making RK900 aware that the Detective has been looking back for quite some time now. His voice still has an undertone of brusque, but far less than it had held beforehand. “The fuck are you starin’ at?”

“My apologies, Detective. I was simply wondering why you smoke so many cigarettes.” RK900 lies, partially. It isn’t what had originally been on his mind, but it is still something he is curious about.

“I dunno. Cause it’s good, I guess.”

RK900’s LED flashes yellow as the internet tells him otherwise, “They cause cancer, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and heart disease, amongst many other illnesses. They are quite the opposite of good.”

Detective Reed shrugs a singular shoulder, of the arm that isn’t holding a cigarette between two fingers in his hand, “‘Bein’ human is a condition that requires a little anaesthesia.’”

“That is a quote.”

“Yeah. Bohemian Rhapsody.” Detective Reed nods, “Great film. Came out when I was 16. Always been a big Queen fan.”

“And your anaesthetic is cigarettes?”

“You got it in one, tin can.”

RK900 watches him curiously as he pops the cigarette back into his mouth, the paper burning as he draws in another breath, ash falling from the tip as he flicks it out of the window. RK900 supposes he cannot really be one to judge, having engaged in self-destructive habits like this himself, so he decides against questioning him about it anymore.

Detective Reed shoots him another look, “How come you’re givin’ me a lecture about this, anyway? Anderson smokes buckets, why don’t you pester him?”

“Lieutenant Anderson already has RK800 to lecture him, he does not need me to do the same. I am only interested in your welfare, Detective.”

The look on Detective Reed’s face is a picture, as it always is when RK900 expresses an interest in his wellbeing. Whether it’s because he does not like the idea or because he is not used to it, RK900 is unclear.

It isn’t like RK900 is overly happy about it, either. But the built-in instinct to protect comes from being an android, and from being partnered with the man in question. Though, as the days pass by, RK900 is finding more and more reasons other than just his programming that he wants to keep his partner safe.

“You don’t have to be so fuckin’ formal all the time, you know. You can just say Hank and Connor.” Detective Reed changes the subject, as he usually does. His cigarette is discarded on the ground outside and he begins to tear into the bag containing his sandwich. “Is that not, like, offensive to call you guys by your fuckin’ numbers anyway?”

“How do you mean?”

“Just seems a bit blunt. You don’t walk around callin’ me by my blood type.”  

“I can if you like. A Negative is rather fitting for you, I think.”

“Hardy-fucking-har.” Detective Reed rolls his eyes, but RK900 does not fail to miss the inclination of his lips. The smirk looks good on him, RK900 decides. “I just mean since you guys are alive now and all that jazz, surely you don’t wanna be walking around being called that.”

RK900 arches a brow in the Detective’s direction, drawing up every name he has thrown his way since meeting him, “I much prefer that to names such as ‘tin can’ or ‘plastic prick’, as you so eloquently call me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to call you that if you had a fuckin’ name, would I?” Detective Reed excuses, picking at the crusts on his sandwich distractedly. Avoiding eye contact, RK900 realises. “So, come on. There’s gotta be one name that you like.”

RK900 suddenly discerns what Detective Reed is asking for, something to call him by, and upon that finds his mind blank. Unsure what to say, he opens his mouth and says the truth, “I haven’t really given it much thought, in honesty. I’ve yet to discover a name that I would be interested in being called permanently.”

“Seriously? What kinda shitty deviant are you?”

RK900 smiles, forced and strangely painful. “A very shitty one.”

“Great. Real helpful.” Detective Reed rolls his eyes, taking a long sip from his hazelnut americano and sitting back in his seat in thought. RK900 simply watches him as he does so, watches the way he runs a hand through his stubble as he thinks. “What about some kinda variation of your model number? Since you like that so much.”

RK900 tilts his head, “What did you have in mind?”

“I dunno. RK? Or just R?”

RK900 feels his LED flash into red before he has a chance to control it, something uncomfortable and hot simmering in his core as his mind works overtime to remind him of the last person who had called him that. RK900 does not want any reminders of that occurrence, and he does not want Gavin Reed to be the next person he puts a bullet in.

“No.”

Detective Reed looks a little startled by the abrupt tone, but he carries on, “Alright then, what about… what about just Nine?”

“Nine?”

“Yeah, y’know. Like nine hundred, but less bloody syllables.”

RK900 turns the name over in his mind a few times, unable to find anything wrong with it. It is a part of his model number, after all, and people would undoubtedly be appreciative of the four fewer syllables they would have to say when conversing with him. He finds he… likes it, even more so, for some strange reason, because it is Detective Reed’s choice.

**[ registering name… processing… ]**

**[ name updated: NINE ] **

“Yes. I think that will be adequate.” RK– _Nine_ says, nodding once in confirmation, offering a smile that does not feel half as forced as the last one.

Detective Reed smirks, satisfied with himself, it would seem. He shoves the empty sandwich bag into the pockets of his car door, “If you think that’s gonna stop me from callin’ you names, though, you’re dead wrong, tin can.”

Nine finds himself huffing air through his nose, mirroring Detective Reed’s earlier laugh unconsciously, “I would be disappointed if you did, Detective.”

Detective Reed turns on the ignition once again and presses play on his CD player in the car, letting the music fill the rest of the journey as he finally pulls out of the car park and drives them towards the crime scene.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gavin sits across from Fowler’s desk once the two weeks are up, nervous and more on edge than he would like to be, struggling to think of what to say even as Jeff opens his mouth and begins having the dreaded conversation with him.

The last fourteen days have been more enjoyable than Gavin had been prepared for. He’s never been one for partners, has managed to avoid them for the past two years, adamant he’d rather chew glass than ever have one ever again. Yet here had come this fucking android, with his witty comebacks and sarcastic nature and (really nice) annoying face, who had singlehandedly broken-down everything Gavin had stood for and left him positively craving for more.

Fucking machines. Gavin had spent weeks wondering how Connor had managed to work his magic on Hank fucking Anderson, and then this prick had come along with his stupid (gorgeous) blue eyes and said, “Here’s how!”

Gavin almost refuses to believe it, convinced he’s in some weird dream induced by his appalling mental state.

Two weeks ago, Gavin had been adamant to put a bullet in his own skull by the time the month was out. Now he’s going home happier than he’s been in years, all on account of his temporary android partner.

It lasts for five minutes once he’s through the door of his own apartment, mind, but that is beside the point. The point is he’s actually got something to look forward to, something to keep him going, something that makes him second guess his plans and want to keep on living.

Nine has been a fixture in Gavin’s life for fourteen days, and three of those days had been spent arguing and throwing comments at one another whenever they got a chance. Yet still, Gavin suddenly could not imagine work without him, does not want to go back to how it was before he arrived at the station.

He wants to keep this partner.

He wants Nine to stay.

“Two weeks at the most _,_ ” Fowler says suddenly, pulling Gavin back to reality and reminding him where he is. “That’s what I promised, and I’m sticking to that, just like you have. RK900 has adapted well here and I can only guess that’s your doing, so well done.”

Gavin swallows down the lump of anticipation in his throat, hoping it will provide him with the ability to speak again. “Cheers.”

“But he’s doing well enough now that I can let him start working on his own or assign him to a new partner if one crops up. But, obviously, that’ll be his choice.”

“Right,” Gavin says because apparently the English language has deserted his brain.

Fowler arches a brow at him and Gavin can practically see the suspicion across his face. “Unless you’ve got any complaints? Any reasons why you still think I shouldn’t keep him on here?”

Gavin picks at his nails under the table for lack of something better to do with his hands, desperate for a cigarette, using it as an excuse to avoid making eye contact with Fowler across the table.

If Gavin were still in the same mindset he was two weeks ago, then this would have been his opportune moment to throw the droid under the bus. Make up some fabricated bullshit to convince Fowler to kick his ass out of the department, have one less android poking their nose around taking all the jobs that human beings have been working their entire lives to get. Have one less fucking Connor to deal with.

But Gavin doesn’t want that, and that’s the fucking problem. Nine isn’t Connor – Nine isn’t just another android taking up space and grating on Gavin’s nerves. He’s different. Gavin doesn’t know why, can’t place a fucking finger on why he likes his presence so much, he just knows he likes having him around. Likes having him as a partner.

Gavin fucking likes him.

“No. No, nothin’.” Gavin answers after a moment, ceasing the destruction of his nails to make eye contact with him again. “He’s a good detective, really good actually. He’ll be good for this place.”

Fowler smiles, knowingly, like he knows something Gavin doesn’t. The fucker always seems to be one step ahead, all the time. “Well then, he can stay.”

Gavin nods, trying his best to keep as casual as possible. It doesn’t matter if Nine isn’t his partner – he’ll still be around the station. It’s not like Gavin won’t ever see him. It’s not like Gavin will mind when he gets a new partner. Course not. It’s Nine’s choice. Whatever. It’s cool.

(Who is he fucking kidding.)

He pushes his chair out from the desk, standing up slowly and nodding his head, “If that’s it then, I got a shit ton of reports to write and a coffee with my name on it, so I’ll just–”

“Yeah, no problem. Thanks for coming in.” Fowler says, turning back to his terminal to write up the paperwork he’s been filling out. Gavin makes a beeline for the door, not looking back once until, “Ah, Reed, one more thing before you go.”

Gavin stops with his hand on the door, turning his head to look back at the desk where he resides.

“You should know that RK900 asked if it would be possible to continue working with you as your partner, despite your period being finished. I said I would consider it, and if you’re willing, then I don’t see any problem with it.”

Gavin can’t quite pinpoint the number of emotions that run through his head at that moment, can’t quite describe how much he hates the warm feeling that bubbles in his chest. His grip on the handle tightens as he tries to ground himself, keeping his expression as impassive as possible as he nods his head slowly – pretending to consider it.

“Whatever.” Gavin shrugs, “I guess he can stick around. But if he gets in my way, you’ll be the first to know about it.”

Fowler smirks, and Gavin can hear the laugh in his tone as he says, “Right, of course. I’ll let RK900 know.”

_“Nine.”_ Gavin corrects before he can stop himself, wishing he’d bit his tongue when Fowler looks up to smirk at him again. “His name is Nine.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd apologise for this chapter being all over the place, but hi it's me, what were you expecting??
> 
> that concludes the prequel, now just time to start working on some sequel chapters (which i promise are coming and WILL be better than this lel) 
> 
> i watched Bohemian Rhapsody recently (can you tell) and it's amazing, please go watch it if you haven't already
> 
> I imagine Kamski is one of those people who changed his name to something cooler when he got more famous, which is where the Ethan Reed hc comes from 
> 
> go look at Gavin's incredible ['show me your kitties'](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/71UwnfpII8L._SY500_.jpg) mug!
> 
> and have a wonderful day! comments and kudos are always appreciated and thank to everyone who has already done so! muchas love <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading and, as always, kudos and feedback are appreciated! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://a-callipygian.tumblr.com/)


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